


Mad City

by FairiesMasquerade



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-01-10 20:20:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 88,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FairiesMasquerade/pseuds/FairiesMasquerade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She'd wished him gone a hundred times. Getting her wish would sink her into a world of corruption and murder, though all she wanted was to be the master of her own heart." - 1940's noir AU, no zombies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters are the property of AMC, the basic idea and setting are the brainchild of imorca and madcorvus. Me, I'm just the vessel. I'm still not sure why I'm involved, but it's too late now. Suckers.

_**A/N:** I'm back! Imorca and madcorvus over on tumblr came up with this radical idea of a 1940's noir-style AU for our Walking Dead characters. Somehow, I got dragged into the shenanigans, so here we are. I'll go into more detail with my notes on the first chapter as to what I'm actually doing with this tale. For now, enjoy this itty bitty teaser of a prologue. A taste, if you will, of what's to come. Trust me, it's not going to be what you expect. ;)_

_**Warnings:** Language, violence, gore, death, sex, angst. If you've read any of my other works, you know to expect all of the above. This will be no different._

* * *

__

_**1947, Atlanta** _

If there was a more run down diner in the whole of Atlanta, Merle Dixon wasn't sure where it would be. The table was gritty and rough under his hands, splinters threatening to snag on his callused fingers. The tiled floor was dusty, chips and cracks running along every square of the odd diamond pattern. He watched the busty blonde behind the counter as she tossed him a curious eye over her shoulder. Any other day, any other time, he'd return the interest. Not today, though. Today was business for the old man.

He checked his watch; half an hour had passed. Daryl and his crew should have the site cleaned up by now, the body moved, the weapon tossed in the trunk of the car to be safely disposed of at a later time. Soon enough, the foreman would come to open up and find Peletier's body but any evidence that linked this to them would be long cleared. They knew well enough how to work around the cops and stay hidden. Greene was smart; he'd trained them well.

The waitress sauntered over with his coffee, hips sashaying back and forth in a manner that was obviously well rehearsed. Merle recognized a good, old fashioned 'come hither' strut when he saw one, having spent much of his spare time in the dark corners of Andrea Harrison's establishment, but he also recognized the worn, dark circles under her eyes she'd tried to bury under layers of makeup. This dame wanted a fix as well as a bit of fun. Merle sighed as she placed the cup and saucer on the table in front of him.

"Can I getcha anything else?" she asked coyly.

"Not tonight, doll."

"You sure about that?" She reached out and ran her hand down his shoulder. Merle flinched and shrugged her hand off him.  _Lousy broad._

"Scram," he ordered.

With a huff, she stalked back to her place behind the counter, 'come hither' walk forgotten in her frustration. Merle chuckled as he watched her snatch up her dirty rag to wipe down the counter yet again from lack of anything else to do. He was the only customer, his presence upon entering enough to send the diner's few patrons scampering out the doors upon his arrival.  _Nothing like the reputation of a good henchman to clear a room._  Merle took a swig of the lukewarm, bitter coffee and winced.

"I piss better coffee in the mornings," he muttered. Merle took his flask from his inside coat pocket, taking a moment to rub his thumb along the beaten silver before popping the cap and pouring a generous shot of whiskey into his cup. He took a long pull from the flask before shoving it back into his pocket, letting the whiskey roll around his tongue before swallowing, enjoying the burn as it crept down his throat.

He drummed his fingers on the table, impatient now to get a move on. Where was he? Merle took another drink of his coffee; as it always did, whiskey made everything better. He was half thinking of ordering something to eat despite the risk of food poisoning this place clearly harbored when the flash of lights spilled across his table through the window; a car was turning in to the lot outside. He squinted, waiting; one of the car doors opened and a figure stood out. It took Merle a minute to place him in the dark outside, blinded as he was by the headlights. The figure waved and he caught a flash of sandy hair.  _Daryl. Good._

Merle quickly drained his coffee; slapping the empty cup back on its saucer, he stood and jammed his fedora back on his head and dropped several bills on the table, leaving a little extra to make up for his rejection of the blonde honey.

The night was cold as he stepped outside and swished his long coat over his shoulders. Merle glanced at the sky; it was so late it was almost early. Daryl was waiting outside the car, his cigarette already smoked almost to the filter. Merle waved away the cigarette case his brother held out to him, impatient now for news.

"Job's done," Daryl said quickly.

"Anybody see ya?"

"'Course not," Daryl scoffed. "Don't give me any shit."

Merle grinned. Daryl had been working with him for old man Greene for a few years now, rising up in the ranks to become one of the top enforcers faster than anyone else in recent memory. Still, he was Merle's baby brother and so a little shit-giving was required every now and then. Just to keep things in place. Merle nudged Daryl with his elbow, pushing him aside so he could climb into the car. He could hear grumbling as Daryl got in after him but chose to ignore it for the moment, letting the rumble of the engine soothe him as the car pulled out onto the road.

"So what now?"

"Let the cops do their thing," Merle replied. "Then we take the wife to see the old man."

"The wife?" Daryl asked. "What's Greene want with her?"

"Dead or not, Peletier owes a debt," Merle said. "It'll be up to her to settle up now."

Daryl was silent, gnawing on his thumb in a telltale sign that he wasn't happy with the situation but wasn't going to bitch about it. Merle knew that anything involving threatening women was Daryl's weakness, but Daryl knew enough to shut up about it.

"Looks like rain," he said instead.  _Smart boy._

"So it does," Merle replied.

Sure enough, the rain started to fall as the car drove into the night, the two men unaware that the growing storm above was just a hint of things to come.


	2. The Detective and Dead Ed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet Detective Shane Walsh and one seriously dead body.

_**A/N:**  Hello, party animals! Holy moly, I was not expecting this to take off like it did. You guys are fantastic! imorca has been doing an "I told you so" dance for days. ;)_

_So, lemme 'splain you a few things here: Obviously, this is a 1940's AU for our TWD characters. However, I'm going to be really, really AU with this. A couple eagle eyes readers spotted the reference to "old man Greene" in the prologue. Kudos to you guys! The majority of our characterizations are based off of Seasons 1 & 2\. You can blame that on the fact that, as part of my research for this project, I marathoned the early seasons of TWD on Netflix. Huzzah._

_The other thing I'm doing is really mixing up pairings and stereotypes a bit. You'll catch that a lot as we move forward, but there are some hints of that in this chapter. So… expect both the anticipated (because y'all know my OTP) and the unexpected. Mwahaha._

_Reviewers get cookies. I would seriously love your feedback on this, as this is very much outside of my normal wheelhouse. Now, enough from me. To the story!_

* * *

**Chapter 1: The Detective and Dead Ed**

Shane Walsh was not a fan of anything that woke him before dawn. He sat behind the wheel of his car and tried to rub the sleep from his eyes as he drove.

"It is  _pissing_  rain," he grumbled.  _Talking to yourself. Very nice, asshole_. He usually did this when he was driving. His belligerence and methods had driven yet another partner to beg for a transfer; Leon had switched a week ago and Dale hadn't assigned him a new partner yet. Working his beat solo was just fine with him. Shane didn't play well with others.

Shane pulled into a row of dilapidated storage units that lined the east end of town and came to a stop in front of number 42. There were several other cars scattered in front. The door to the unit stood open and dark silhouettes towered in the flickering orange light from within; Dale already had a crew here. Two young uniforms, their clothes and badges so new and shiny Shane figured they must have graduated from the Academy just yesterday, were marking off the area with tape.

Despite his fedora and trench coat, he found himself soaked by the time he made it from his car to the door, the wind biting at what little skin he had exposed. The rain was coming down in sheets, leaving the buildings and streets slick and shiny. It gave the night a warped sensation as though he was viewing everything through a thick piece of glass. Voices drifted to his ears as he stalked closer to the door and Shane could feel the hum of excitement in the air.  _Must be another body._

He stepped through the door, rapping his knuckles on the tin frame to announce his presence. Only one head turned to greet him, the others too entranced with whatever ( _whomever_ , his mind supplied) lay on the floor before them. Shane nodded at his supervising officer; a quick glance at Dale's eyes told him he was in for a long day ahead.

"Well? Who's the stiff?" he murmured as he came up next to Dale. Shane tilted his fedora back, feeling the water trickle off the back brim of his fedora as he did so. His eyes came to rest on the figure that kept his colleagues attention, letting Dale's low baritone roll over him as the older man rattled off the details.

"ID in his wallet says his name is Edgar Peletier, age 44."

The corpse lay sprawled on the concrete floor, one pudgy arm tucked back behind the head at an awkward angle. The skin was already chalky, lips tinged blue with the unmistakable mark of death.

"Dislocated shoulder. New bruises. The beating's fresh."

The simple work clothes, white button down and black pants, were crumpled and torn. Bruises, dark and purple, bloomed in small patches along the exposed skin. Shane tilted his head, taking in the details.  _No finger marks or scratches_. Whoever had done the beating had been careful. Each mark was intentional, planned.

"Cause of death is a bullet to the head."

The slug had left a ragged circle, set low on the forehead, dead center between the eyes. A stream of blood ran down the bridge of the nose, across the fat cheek to dribble into the ground in a small pool. Shane stuck his leg out and used the toe of his shoe to lift and turn the head, ignoring the grumblings of the other officers. The bullet that had left so neat a hole in front had not been as kind upon exit. The back of the head was blown away, blood and bone and brain left to mix in a jumbled soup in what remained of the skull. Shane let the head drop, grimacing as it hit the ground with a wet squish.

"There is no splatter of any kind, no blood or any other matter anywhere else in the room."

"So they dumped him here," Shane muttered.

"Ya think?" Dale grouched. "Didn't have to force the door, either. Likely had the key."

"Who found him?"

"Night watchman," Dale replied. "Bassett is talking to him now." Dale gestured to the far side of the room, where Shane's recent ex-partner was in hushed conversation with the unfortunate security guard.  _Poor bastard_. Shane wasn't sure if his sympathy wasn't more for the man having to deal with Bassett, who ranked slightly below a rabid possum in terms of intelligence, than it was for finding the body in the first place.

Shane stepped forward and knelt beside the body, careful to avoid the congealing puddle of blood around the head. He took a pencil from the inner pocket of his coat and reached out to the corpse, running the stubby lead along the jagged edge of the hole.

"Looks like a .45," Shane noted. "Fella had to be shot at pretty close range for the hole to look this neat." He skimmed the pencil down the blood trail, ignoring the glassy grey eyes that stared at nothing, before circling a cluster of bruises clumped along the collarbone, visible just below the open collar of the dead man's shirt. There was more than just precision to these bruises, there was a pattern.

"Brass knuckles," Shane said. "Smart. Son of a bitch didn't wanna leave finger marks on the body."

Shane let his gaze run over the poor sap again. No jacket, pants pockets turned out. Faint lines along the seam showed that this particular pair of trousers had been let out recently, probably to accommodate their owner's swelling girth. The shoes were scuffed and worn but clean.  _Too clean_. Shane leaned over to inspect them further. The shoes could have been polished an hour before. He noticed dark spots along the hem of the pants and reached out a cautious finger to dab at one. It was damp, but when he pulled his finger back it didn't come away stained with red as he'd expected. Shane took a quick sniff.  _It's just water_.

"They cleaned him up," he said.

"What?"

"Whoever whacked him," Shane said as he leaned back on his haunches, "wiped down his shoes and cleaned up his clothes."

"Why the hell would they do that?" Dale asked.

"Cleaning up evidence that that doesn't belong on the body." Shane removed his hat and ran a hand over his dark hair, feeling the stiff crackle of pomade under his fingertips. "His pockets are empty and he doesn't have a jacket. How'd we get his ID?"

"It was lying on the ground next to him," Dale said wryly.

Shane stood and turned to his boss in surprise. "You're shitting me."

Dale shook his head and held out a battered leather wallet. Shane let it drop into his hand. Peeling it open he found nothing more than ten dollars cash and a wrinkled driver's license.

"They wanted us to know who he was," Dale said. Shane nodded; he'd been thinking the same.

"Hey Dale!" Bassett was calling from the corner, waving his notebook to get his attention. The night watchman was leaning over, heaving his guts onto the floor, the corpse on the ground apparently too much. He took advantage of Dale's momentary distraction and deftly snatched the tenner out of the wallet, stuffing the bill into his coat pocket before closing the flap and shoving it back into Dale's hand.

"Photo boys been by yet?"

"They're on their way," Dale said.

Shane nodded and took another long look at dead Ed.  _Is this all a man comes down to? A corpse and an empty wallet? Fuck me, I need a drink._  He shook his head, attempting to banish the morbid thoughts. Now was not the time to get philosophical.

"What else do we know about him?"

"Almost nothing," Dale said. "Whoever Eddy P. here was, he was real small fish."

"So we don't think it's Greene?" Shane whispered this, knowing there were ears around who'd report the first hint of the name back to the old man himself.

" _Of course_  it's Greene," Dale whispered back, leaning close. "Setup's too perfect to be anybody else. We'll never prove it, though."

"Maybe, maybe not." Shane tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at the glint of metal. "This one's married."

" _What?!_ " Dale looked surprised; apparently, he'd missed it too. Shane crouched down by the body and pulled out his trusty pencil again, using it as a lever to work the hand out from under the head and hold it in the air. The gold band gleamed dully from the rust colored stains, something Shane had missed on his first inspection.

"Looks like we have a stop to make," Dale said sadly.

"Christ," Shane mumbled. "I hate this part." He dropped the hand and stepped back from the corpse, producing a handkerchief to wipe down his pencil before shoving both back into the depths of his trench coat.

"Is there any part to like?" Dale asked archly.

_The thrill of the chase, of danger creeping down your spine and filling you up until you can't breathe from the excitement..._

"Nah," Shane sighed. "You coming?"

"And leave you to talk to the poor woman alone?" Dale smirked. "You'd be trying to get under her skirt before she even realizes she's a widow."

"Hey," Shane protested. "That only happened once."

Dale gave him a look and Shane tried not to smile.

"Twice."

"Shane..." Dale said warningly.

"Fine, I'll behave."

Dale quickly gathered the other officers who had been milling about, giving out swift orders. Shane tipped his hat to the stiff.

"So long, small fish," he said quietly.

He knew in his bones that this was Greene's work. To the world, Hershel Greene was the perfect citizen: a businessman, a family man, devoutly Catholic and upstanding citizen of their community. For all its metropolis feel, Atlanta was smaller than people realized and Shane had had enough dealings with the dirtier side of town to hear rumors about the Irish businessman's true workings. Rumor had so far proved to be just that, though: rumor. Dale's mission for years had been to bring Greene to his knees, a mission he'd been trying to coerce Shane into joining for the better part of a year now. He'd hedged, though, as much as he could. Sticking to the straight and narrow path was not something Shane was skilled at, and chasing Greene would bring him too close to the past he'd worked hard to forget.

_Now Rick? Rick wouldn't have hesitated to chase Greene with everything he had._

Shane cringed as he stepped outside and leaned against the wall. His former partner, his  _first_  partner, was not something he needed to be thinking of right now. He pushed thoughts of Rick Grimes to the back of his mind as Dale stepped outside, putting his captain's hat on his head.

"You're driving," Dale said with a grim expression.  _Christ, I really need a damn drink._

No, he couldn't think of the past, or of Rick. Not now. There was a new case to consider instead: dead Ed, his killers, and a new widow to console and question.

Shane hoped they got to Peletier's wife before anyone else did.


	3. The Merry Widow

_**A/N:**  Hello, my lovelies! Here are go again. Many thanks to im0rca for her magnificent beta skills and to madcorvus for the most amazing graphics I've ever seen to go along with this tale. But mostly, thanks to everyone who has given us a review on this tale of ours. I need the encouragement!_

_Now, let's meet Carol, shall we? ;) The plot thickens!_

* * *

The carpet was old fashioned, thick, intricately patterned and faded with the passage of too many afternoons caught in the haze of the Georgia sun; a beast of a rug that no matter how much you scrubbed and beat at it, it never seemed to really get clean.

Carol had always hated the damn thing.

She sat perched on the edge of one of the living room's overstuffed armchairs, clad in nothing more than her threadbare nightgown and robe, her auburn hair a free falling mess of curls around her shoulders as she avoided the unblinking stares of the policemen sitting on her sofa. The silence stretched out like taffy around them as they gave her a minute to process the news.

Ed was dead. Carol fiddled with a loose thread on the edge of the hated rug, curling it around her big toe as the words spun around and around in her head.

Ed was  _dead_.

She realized the coppers were waiting on her to say something.

"When did this happen?" Carol finally asked.

"Earlier tonight," one answered. Carol raised her eyes from the rug and studied the two men. One older, dressed in the sharp lines of a captain's uniform, had a kind face and was scrutinizing her with what seemed to be almost genuine compassion. The younger one was garbed in a rumpled suit and worn trench coat that was still damp from the rain. He worried a battered fedora in his hands as he stared at her through dark eyes. He was harder to read and it unnerved Carol. She was naturally observant, good at reading people; had to be, to judge Ed's moods and prepare herself for the swing of his fist.  _Until now_.

"What happened, Officer...?" She trailed off, not remembering either of their names at the moment.

"Detective," the younger one replied gently. "Detective Shane Walsh and this is Lieutenant Dale Horvath."

"Thank you," Carol said. "What happened to him?" That was good, something any normal woman would ask in her situation. Her mind twitched briefly to her other visitor before she refocused her efforts on the men in front of her.

"Ma'am, we can't go into a whole lot of detail just yet," Lieutenant Horvath said. "There are still a lot of things we are trying to work out-"

_Oh._

"He was murdered," she said softly.

The men exchanged a glance with each other, surprised.  _Damn. That explains a lot._

"Yes," Walsh replied shortly, earning a glare from his supervising officer. Walsh ignored it, fixing his unblinking gaze at her and Carol remembered he'd introduced himself as  _detective_. She clenched the soft cotton of her robe with tense fingers and tried to breathe, wondering just how talented a detective he was.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Peletier," Lt. Horvath said, not unkindly. "May I use your phone?"

Carol shook her head and rubbed her hand across her face, her mind spinning in a hundred different directions.

"Of course," she said. "There is one upst - in the parlor."  _Careful, girl. Don't let them upstairs!_  "It's a coin operation one, I'm afraid." She tried to appear nonchalant while working to calm the frantic stuttering of her heart at her near mistake.

"That's all right," the lieutenant answered. "I'll just be a moment.  _Shane_." Carol didn't miss the quick gesture the officer gave to the detective as he stepped into the hall, leaving her alone with Walsh. For a moment, there was no sound between them but the ticking of the clock that sat on the mantle over the fireplace.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he finally said. Carol just nodded, back to curling her toes around the fraying edges of the rug. "Mind if I pour myself a drink?" She looked up; Walsh was eyeing the wet bar on the far side of the room. She nodded again, not trusting herself to speak. She listened to the clink of glassware on the wooden bar, the gush of liquid being poured before a tumbler of amber liquid was thrust into her vision. She looked up, confused.

"I can't... I'm not supposed to..." she stuttered. "Ed..."

Ed was  _dead_. She wouldn't get hit for taking a drink of his precious liquor, not now. Carol bit her lip to hide the smile that threatened to spread across her face and took the glass with a shaking hand. The whiskey burned, unfamiliar, and she choked as it slid down her throat. She felt Walsh's hand on her shoulder, the warmth from his palm seeping through the thin fabric she wore as he steadied her while she coughed. It took her a moment to catch her breath.

"Thank you," she said.

"First drink?" Walsh asked as he sauntered back over to the sofa.

"First in a long time," Carol replied softly. She hadn't had a drink since her wedding night. A proper wife didn't drink, as far as Ed was concerned. The back of his hand had made that abundantly clear to her.

"Sip it, don't gulp." He was almost smiling at her. "Let it rest on your tongue a minute before you swallow." He nodded at her encouragingly and Carol took another cautious sip, following his instructions. The taste of whiskey on her tongue made her skin tingle and it went down easier this time, filling her with warmth that pooled low in her belly. "Better?"

"Much, thank you," Carol said. She spun the drink in her hand, watching the alcohol swish around in the glass.

"I hate to ask this right now, but did your husband have any reason to be down at the warehouse district tonight?" He was watching her again.

"Not that I'm aware of," she answered honestly.

That seemed to be all he wanted to ask for the moment and he settled back into the couch, taking a long slurp from his own glass as he fixed his gaze on her. She felt her toes curl of their own accord, burying themselves in the threads of the rug under her feet. She felt the hint of dust grit against her skin.  _I really hate this thing._

"Why do you keep staring at me?" she blurted out suddenly. Walsh cocked an eyebrow at her and lowered his drink.

"I suppose I'm waiting for you to start crying," he said archly.

"Oh." Because any other woman confronted with news of her husband's murder would be hysterical by now. _Dammit, Carol._  She was saved from having to come up with a respectable answer by the return of Lt. Horvath, coming to a stop just inside the archway that led to the hall with a regretful look on his face.

"We need you to come down to the station," he said.

"May I ask why?"  _Breathe, old girl. Just breathe._

"We have some questions," Horvath answered. "And we're going to need you to confirm his identity."

"Don't you have his ID already?" Carol asked.

"Just papers," Walsh said.

"I need to see his face," Carol realized aloud.  _Cooperate. Play your role._  "What time do you want me?"

"Actually, you need to come with us now, Mrs. Peletier," Lt. Horvath said firmly.

_Oh, God._  Her heart sank and without a word she drained her glass, ignoring the smirk of surprise and approval on Walsh's face as she stood and clutched her robe to her.

"Well, then. If you gentlemen will give me a moment to dress?"

Walsh stood as he and Horvath both murmured their agreement. Carol left them in her living room as calmly as she could, making it to the top of the stairs before anxiety caught up with her. She leaned against the wall, her pulse thrumming in her ears. She'd known the minute her first visitor had arrived, banging on the front door and pulling her from sleep, that something was terribly, horribly wrong. She'd barely had a chance to comprehend the instructions he'd delivered in a cold voice, without explanation, before new knocks at her door had announced the arrival of the police. They'd told her what the other visitor hadn't.  _Ed was dead. Murdered._

Laughter bubbled out of her without thought and Carol clamped her hands over her mouth, hoping the men in her house tonight hadn't heard that.  _She was free_. Joy burst in a silent explosion inside of her, making her body tremble from the force of it. Ed would never touch her again. She supposed it was a sin to celebrate the murder of her husband; if it was, this was sin she would embrace with open arms.  _Later_. Thoughts of her third guest filtered through her haze of happiness, sobering her quicker than a bucket of water dumped on a drunk. Her celebration would have to wait. Time was ticking.

Carol made her way down the long hallway past door after door of empty rooms. The boardinghouse hadn't had lodgers in a while, rumors of Ed's temper doing more to hamper the business even than his mismanagement of their limited funds. She moved on light feet to the master bedroom at the end of the hall, slipping inside and turning to carefully close the door, keeping her back to the hulking figure that stood in the shadows by her bed.

"Well?" Merle Dixon's voice was an icy drawl that sent skitters of frission down her spine. She knew instinctively that, for all the horrors she'd experienced at Ed's hand, this Merle Dixon could deliver far worse. This man was  _dangerous_ , the kind of dangerous she'd only read about in novels.

"My husband is dead," Carol answered softly, still facing the door.

"So I hear." He sounded almost amused.

"The police want me to go to the station with them." She kept her voice low as she turned to face him, watching the smoke from his cigarette curl around him like a veil.

"Then you should get a move on, doll." He gestured her towards her closet. She hesitated when Dixon made no effort to move or turn around.

"You're going to watch me change?"

With a dramatic sigh, Dixon turned to gaze out the window, taking a long drag from his cigarette. Carol shifted on her feet, intensely anxious about having this unnverving man, whom she'd known less than an hour , in the room with her while she changed. She could see the faint outline of his gun pressed against the inside of his coat as he smoked and thought for a brief moment she might faint.

"Hurry up," Dixon growled. "They won't wait down there forever."

Her feet finally obeyed and now Carol moved fast, pulling undergarments from the heavy oak dresser and tossing her stockings onto the bed before she moved to the closet. She pulled the door open, casting a quick look at Dixon to make sure he wasn't looking before shedding her robe and nightgown. She threw her things on as quickly as she could, grabbing a dress at random before snatching her one pair of good day heels from the floor. She turned and jumped; Dixon had moved to stand by the end of her bed and was staring at her with a sly look on his face.  _He watched me_. Her skin crawled at the thought.

"Tick, tock."

She loathed him already, but he was right; she had to move fast. Carol swallowed her nerves and sat on the edge of the bed to roll on her stockings with shaking hands. She finished one leg and was clipping her stocking to the suspender of her garter when thick fingers skimmed across the warm skin of her upper thigh. Carol didn't think as she moved faster than she could blink, slapping Dixon's hand away and leaping to her feet.

_Oh no nononono_. Carol's breath caught in her throat as she eyed the giant of a man standing less than a foot from her, her body frozen in anticipation of the blow that was sure to come now. Dixon's eyes dropped to her stockinged feet and trailed slowly up her body before meeting her anxious gaze with a smirk.  _Was that approval?_

"Good girl," he murmured. "You're stronger than I thought, darlin'."

"You're not going to hit me?" Carol asked before she could stop herself. She flushed with shame at the show of weakness, but refused to let her eyes drop from his. Any hint of humor fell from Dixon's expression as he looked back at her.

"No." He stepped back, giving her room to breath again. "Hurry up, doll. I figure you've got less than a minute now before the flatfoots come lookin' for ya."  _Oh god, there are policemen downstairs_. Before the next thought could even fully form in her head, Dixon spoke again.

"We both know I'll do a lot worse if you mention me to those dicks downstairs."

_Right._  She stuffed her feet in her shoes and moved to her dressing table, quickly rolling and pinning her hair back as Dixon continued talking.

"You remember what I said?"

"Don't say anything to anyone. You were never here, this never happened. Play my role and I won't get hurt," Carol replied as she dusted her face with a light sprinkle of powder. "I still don't understand though-"

"That comes later." Dixon interrupted her with a wave of his hand, stubbing out his cigarette in Ed's ashtray on the bedside table. "Go with the coppers now. Come home and someone will be in touch with more instructions."

Carol swept up her coat and purse, turning to face Merle Dixon one more time. She had to ask; she had to know before she went downstairs to face her husband's cold corpse.

"What did Ed get me into?"

Merle Dixon gave a chuckle, his pearly white teeth gleaming in a shark's grin she was sure would haunt her nightmares in the days to come.

"Doll, you have no idea."


	4. Two Swoons

_**A/N:** A couple of you have expressed your concerns. Really, truly, just bear with me. This is going to be a long, slow burn, but I promise it'll _ _be worth the wait. Also, this chapter you'll start to notice that we've tinkered with things a bit. It's an experiment. Stick with me & I promise I won't hurt you (much - it's ME)._

__This chapter takes a lot of inspiration from 'The Godfather', 'Road to Perdition' and just a little 'Touch of Evil'. If you haven't watched any of these movies, I highly suggest you go do so. Right now. Well, finish reading this & leave me a review first, but then GO WATCH THEM! All 3 have a heavy hand in influencing the whole arc of this story I'm weaving._ _

_**Disclaimer:**  Still don't own squat from 'The Walking Dead' or it's characters, except this idea, and the setting and… ok, I own a bit. Haha!_

* * *

**Chapter 4: Two Swoons**

Daryl Dixon pulled on his collar before twisting the knot of his tie, loosening it just enough for him to breathe easier. He took a swig from the tall stein of beer he kept clenched in his hand, listening to the growing rumble wafting up from the main floor as more people arrived. He hated dealing with days like today, but he knew it was a necessary part of the show: Hershel Greene, well-to-do farmer, businessman and real estate magnate, staunch Catholic, pillar of the high society of Atlanta, friend to one and all. He was even willing to finance and host a wake for the families of his fellow church goers. Downstairs in the parlor was the stiff holed up in a fine wooden kimono, bought and paid for on the spot by none other than Hershel Greene himself. The grieving widow would be along shortly, cloaked in black, all simpering tears and snot-soaked handkerchiefs, not knowing that the good and kindly Mr. Greene from church was the very person who had ordered the death of her poor husband, though lesser hands had actually orchestrated the deed itself. Greene did enjoy thumbing his nose at fate. Daryl sipped his beer, swishing the amber liquid around in his glass. It was sharp with the tang of irony.

He shouldn't be bitter. Daryl knew his place and knew that of all the choices he'd made, following Merle into this life was one of the easier ones. It was a good living, hard work but great perks. They made being one of Greene's top enforcers made everything almost worth it. He had money, he had style, security, moreso than anything he'd ever had in the shithole he'd left behind.

Thom, Jackson and Randall sat around the small table, cards in hand as they squeezed in a few quick rounds of poker before the widow arrived. No cigs today though; the missus would have twitched a conniption if she'd caught them smoking upstairs. Daryl sighed and checked his watch;. His brother was locked up with the old man himself and had been for hours, leaving the setup of the wake in the hands of the staff at mercy of the shrill tones of Lori Greene. There were reasons they'd taken to calling her The Banshee when the old man wasn't around.

It had already been a long day, and the wake hadn't even started yet.

"How much fuckin' longer we gotta wait?"

Daryl looked up at the card table. Jackson Lachtrie was well on his way to being drunk off his feet. Tall, dark haired with a permanently smug expression, Jackson was an up and comer in the business, a real go-getter. He'd made his bones two years before, working his way through a rival gambling ring and bringing the lucrative operation under Greene's thumb in a matter of weeks. It was no secret he'd been eyeing Merle's job ever since. Daryl wondered how much longer they'd have to wait before they came to blows.

"This broad better hurry her ass up," Jackson muttered. "Let's get this goddamn show on the road. I'm fuckin' hungry."

"Yeah, fuckin' hungry," Randall echoed. Fucking Randall was a fucking fat-head. He'd yet to make his mark and seemed content to be nothing more than Jackson's parrot.  _Waste of damn space._

"You're always hungry. Shut the fuck up and deal." Thom Crowley was the most senior among them. He'd been with Greene even longer than Daryl had. Hell, he almost out-ranked Merle. He could have, too, if he'd had a bit more ambition to him. Thom had once told Daryl that Merle was welcome to the drama and the dick-swinging required to be number two. 'Thing with hanging back? None of the hassles with nearly all the same gravy,' he'd said. Randall was stupid, Jackson an obnoxious prick, but Thom... Thom was a man you didn't cross. Despite that, Daryl almost  _liked_  Thom; they worked well together, spending most jobs in comfortable silence, focused on the deal at hand.

"I fuckin' hate wakes," Jackson muttered. "Women fuckin' wailing everywhere, ever'body drunk offa their asses, not near enough booze, and too much damn casserole."

"Damn casserole," Randall agreed.

"Fuckin' useless," Jackson continued. "Doin' alla this for Edgar fuckin' Peletier when god knows what the slimy trai-"

"Shut your yappin'," Daryl barked.

He'd turned his eye to the door from the hall and found that they had company. Tall, with a gorgeous set of gams hidden behind smoky stockings, her auburn hair curled and pinned neatly beneath her hat, and behind the fine mesh of the black mourner's veil Daryl caught a glimpse of the clearest, bluest eyes he'd ever seen. A pretty piece, to be sure. Certainly a mourner, but too clear eyed to be the widow or a family member. Maybe a friend of The Banshee's. She was obviously looking for something or someone.

"Well, hello beautiful." Jackson was definitely drunk, eyeing the lady who stood uncertainly in the doorway. "Care to join our little soiree? I could use a little kiss for luck, if you know what I mean, doll." He taped his cheek, giving the woman a wink. Daryl snorted into his drink, but before he could say anything further the hulking figure of his big brother towered behind Jackson.

"Enough," Merle said shortly. Jackson grimaced but fell silent, unwilling to go at it with Merle in front of witnesses. Merle turned his glare on each of them in turn, clearly unhappy, before settling his eye on the dame. "Mrs. Peletier."

 _Fuck me running. She's the widow after all._  Daryl straightened up, fixing his tie and his hair with the same gesture, giving the lady a respectful nod. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the gamblers had leapt to their feet, guilty looks cast across all of their faces.

"Mr. Dixon," Mrs. Peletier replied. Daryl had known little of Ed Peletier before the order to knock him off and he knew nothing about his wife. The woman before him was looking back at his brother with a nervous expression - smart, given who she was talking to. She seemed pretty calm otherwise, unexpected for a widow.

"I'm sorry about these yahoos. They forget how to act decent in front of a real lady. Come right this way," Merle said. Daryl caught a whiff of perfume as she passed by him. "Mrs. Greene is waitin' for you." He ushered her through the far door before turning an amused face back to Daryl.

"Get them downstairs," he hissed. "Come on, Daryl."

Daryl nodded and drained the last of his drink, herding the gang downstairs as they fixed their jackets, and wondering just how the new widow had taken the "business proposal" from his brother.

* * *

The wake had gone well so far. People paid their respects to the corpse laid out in grand measure in the parlor before threading through the rest of the house to imbibe enough food and drink to sink the Titanic and talked about a man they hardly knew. Daryl had made his rounds, keeping an eye out for anything that would disturb the peace. So far, everyone had played their roles to perfection. He'd caught glimpses of the Widow Peletier, usually clamped tightly in the grip of The Banshee and surrounded by a gaggle of womenfolk, all of whom looked more upset than the widow herself.

_*Clink*Clink*Clink*_

The tapping of silver on crystal rang out over the dull roar of conversation, bringing everyone's attention to the elegantly dressed, genteel man who stood in front of the fireplace, a drink in one hand and the knob of an aged ornate shillelagh clasped in the other. The old man had the stately Irish gentleman act down pat.

" _Dia 's Muire dhuit_ ," Hershel Greene said, all warmth and dignity. "The family and I want to welcome you all of you to our home. It's good to see so many friends gathered together for support in this house on such as day as this. I had this speech prepared, but it would be dishonest of me to say that I knew Ed well. But, lose one of us, it hurts us all."

A murmur of agreement ran through the crowd as Daryl made his way towards the front to take his place. He could see Merle and Thom shadowing his movements along either side of the room; Jackson and Randall would cover the back.

"I tell you what I do remember though, and maybe Carol will remember this as well," Hershel turned and acknowledged the solemn figure of Carol Peletier standing off to the side with the Greene family. Daryl shifted, keeping her in his gaze as Greene continued his speech. "I remember Ed on the high school football team. Championship game, down six points, ten seconds left to play, five yards to go... Ed tackles his own quarterback!"

The crowd gave the obligatory laugh, cheering at the memory of a man Daryl could bet a dollar almost none of them had known.

"Mistakes," Hershel said, his voice more solemn than before. "We all make 'em, God knows." Hershel lifted his glass, waiting until everyone in the crowd had raised their own in turn. "Let's drink to Ed's honor. Let's drink him to God, and hope that he gets to Heaven... at least an hour before the Devil finds out he's dead."

Chants of  _hear, hear_  ran through the crowd as everyone drank, toasting the soul of Edgar Peletier to the afterlife. Daryl swallowed his shot of whiskey in one gulp. Sucker. He could see Greene scanning the room, making sure everyone was in place, before nodding and holding a hand out to the woman at his left.

"Well now," Hershel said, "I'd like to have Mrs. Peletier come say a few words. Words that, I'll wager, have a bit more poetry than mine. Carol?"

* * *

The room spun for a moment, the sound fading out, behind the white noise cascading through her ears and Carol wondered for half a minute if she was going to faint. Maybe it's the drink. She'd had more alcohol in the past three days than she'd had in twenty years. Something was squeezing her arm so tight it was starting to go numb. She focused on that for a moment, letting the rush in her head settle itself.

_Too much too much too much._

She didn't have the stomach to say words over her husband's body, laid out in more splendor than he'd ever experienced in life. The morgue had been bad enough.

_The air inside was cold and sour, enveloping her like a cloud as she stepped in, trying not to shudder. She couldn't bring herself to acknowledge the solemn f figure in the white coat who greeted the detectives, simply following as he led them past the row of sheet-covered figures spread out on long tables, thick white tags tied with string around pale toes that dangled out the end of each sheet. She thought she might vomit._

_They stopped near the end of the line. She recognized the figure cloaked in white cloth, could discern every lump and knob of the body she'd thoroughly detested with every fiber of her being for so long. Recognition did not bring her any calm, though, and when the sheet was lifted to show her the chalk white of Ed's face, the shock of it was enough to set the world spinning. The stench of death filled her nose and she felt her legs give out, the tension of the past hours finally too much. An iron band wrapped around her stomach, pulling her back against something hard and warm. Detective Walsh had her in his strong grip, rescuing her from the floor._

_"That's him," she heard herself breathe. "That's Ed."_

_"Get her out of here."_

_Her feet dragged and the world swam before gravity gave way and she was floating through the air. The dark was gone with a bang and Carol sucked in huge lungfuls of the fresh air, trying to purge her body of foul mist that seemed to cling to every pore of her skin._

_"Easy." Walsh set her on the concrete stairs that led up to the street, pulling her head into the curve of his broad shoulder, his arm curled around her back. "Easy, now."_

_"God, the-the smell. I couldn't-"_

_"Shhh, it's all right." His voice was low and soothing in her ear as she tried to remember the difference between inhaling and exhaling. Long minutes passed with his hand on her back, fingers tapping out a slow rhythm her breath finally matched as her vision steadied and became clear._

_"I am so sorry." Carol flushed with embarrassment at her behavior._

_"I know this is hard for you," Walsh replied. "You don't need to apologize."_

_Right. Grieving widow. Her near fainting spell probably worked out in her favor, then. She turned her head, catching the faint spice of cologne and realized she was still leaning against the detective. Carol pulled herself upright, yanking down the hem of her navy dress, just in time for Lt. Horvath to peek his head out the door at them. The man had impeccable timing._

_"Everybody all right?" he asked._

_Carol leapt to her feet, wanting nothing more than to flee the cold horrors of this place._

_"Let's go."_

This was the same feeling as she'd had then, and Carol fought it, clenching her fingers around the hands holding her arm. She looked up into the sweetly concerned face of Lori Greene, nee Grimes. Everyone in town knew her story: unhappily married to a former policeman turned reporter, she'd left her old life and essentially thrown herself at the feet of Hershel Greene. She'd worked as a nursemaid for his ailing wife until the older woman passed. It had been less than the normal year of mourning when word came out that Lori had married Hershel Greene in a private ceremony. The rumors were that she was unhappily wed but happy enough to spend her new husband's money on her daily shopping trips. Carol had seen the Greenes at Mass, always in their designated pew near the altar and decked out in the finest threads money could buy. Although they had rarely spoken before today, Carol found herself grateful for Lori's presence just now.

"You gonna make it?" the other woman whispered to her. Carol nodded once, then again as she focused on making sure her legs didn't give out. She gave Lori's hands a squeeze before prying them off of her arm and moving to take her place next to the intimidating figure of Hershel Greene.

Carol swallowed as she looked out on the crowd. She didn't know half of the people here.  _A speech. What in God's name am I supposed to say about Ed?_

"My husband Ed... was not wise."  _Now there's the understatement of the decade._  "He wasn't gentle, either... and with a skin full of liquor in him he was a pain in the ass." She caught a glimpse of Merle Dixon, leaning against the wall and watching her with the same smirk he'd given her days ago in her bedroom.  _Just how strong are you?_

"Frankly, he was a pain in the ass without the liquor too," Carol said, surprising herself. A real laugh rolled through the crowd and Carol had to resist rolling her eyes at the look of astonishment on people's faces.  _Oh, screw this nonsense._  Her legs were steady under her now and she straightened up, standing taller before the scrutiny of these strangers. Right in the front there was one of the rough men who had been upstairs, the younger one who had been off drinking alone at the bar. With his sandy hair and blue eyes, he was almost handsome, would have been more if Carol hadn't known who he worked for. He was staring at her with a curious expression, like he was trying to figure her out and was confused that she wasn't behaving how she should.  _Good._

"I want to say thank you to our generous host," Carol said. "Where would this town be without Hershel Greene?" She saw the man in front of her cough out a surprised laugh and duck his head to the floor to avoid being noticed. Ignoring the titters and shocked gasps from the crowd at her daring, Carol turned and inclined her head graciously at Mr. Greene, who raised his hand to the audience and bowed his head in humble acknowledgement of her praise, before turning and walking out of the room.

* * *

The beat from the bodhrán thumped through the room, making the floor shake as Daryl made his way over to where Merle lounged against the oak paneled wall, nursing a drink from his silver flask. Merle never drank alcohol in public except what came from that flask of his. Daryl wasn't even sure where he'd lifted it from. Merle crooked a finger at him and pulled him further into a corner to avoid being overheard.  _Like anyone could hear us with the band going now._  The dancing was well underway, the party officially started now that the speeches were done, and the squeals from the accordian mingled with bagpipes, tin whistle and the ever present thump of the drum as the crowd lined up and stomped in time with the rhythm.

"She's a spitfire, ain't she?" Daryl asked amused.

"'Where would this town be without Hershel Greene?'" Merle intoned somberly. "Fuck yeah, she's a spitfire. The Banshee near about fainted. Thought the old man was gonna give it to her right there."

"So what's the deal?" Daryl asked. "You were in with the old man a while."

"He's got a business proposition for ol' Widow Peletier," Merle replied.

"Ed was in that deep?" Daryl was surprised.

"Hell no," Merle scoffed. "Ed was small fish. The dame comes in handy though, for some other shit."

"Blake?"

Merle just nodded.  _Well, shit._  Phillip Blake was proving to be a bigger pain in the ass than any of them had figured.

"What the hell does Carol Peletier have to do with Phillip Blake?"

"Now, don't you worry, little brother." Merle clamped a beefy paw down on Daryl's shoulder. "The skirt ain't gonna land herself in harm's way, so long as she does what we tell her to."

"And what is that?" Daryl asked warily. Men he could handle, but doing something that put a woman in harm's way was beyond his realm of comfort. Merle was watching him with a twinkle in his eye.

"Let's go upstairs and find out."

* * *

 ** _A/N:_**  ' _Dia 's Muire dhuit' means "God and Mary go with you" in Irish Gaelic._


	5. Deals With The Devil

** Chapter 5: Deals with the Devil **

Carol threw herself into one of the hundred of sitting rooms that seemed to fill this house, the one that Lori Greene said was set aside for her personal use for today, slamming the door shut behind her and sinking on shaky legs to the loveseat with her head in her hands. _Did I really just challenge Hershel Greene in front of half of Atlanta on his own turf? What the hell is wrong with me?_  

There was a soft click behind her as the door opened and Carol groaned. _Probably Lori Greene ready to tear my hair out._

“That was quite a show you put on there, kitten.” _Oh no, its worse._ Carol raised her head to wearily take in the sight of Merle Dixon, ushering into the room the very man she’d half admired from the front of the crowd during her little speech. _Now what?_ Her curiosity must have shown on her face, because Merle jerked his head towards the younger man.

“My brother, Daryl. Daryl, Carol Peletier.” _Ah, that explains it._

“I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am,” Daryl said softly.

_That’s it._ Carol snapped.

“Are you?” Carol snorted out an ungracious laugh. “Oh, good. I suppose someone should be sorry. I’m certainly not. If I could, I’d give the man who murdered my husband a key to the city.” She was aware that both men were watching her with something akin to shock and awe.

“Try not to tip your mitt too much today,” Merle sneered. “Appearances and all.”

_Appearances. It’s all just a show. Is that all that matters here?_ She’d barely kept her head on straight these past days: the news of Ed’s death, so many unexpected visitors, twist and turns around every corner. She remembered the phone call she’d gotten after coming home from filing the initial reports at the police station, informing her that her husband’s funeral expenses would be taken care of as long as she played her role of mournful wife, told no one of this arrangement and that more information would come later. The world, stagnant and still for so many long, cold years, was suddenly moving too fast for her to manage. She could barely figure out how she actually felt about everything that was happening, much less the kind of image she was supposed to be playing.

 “I don’t understand,” Carol confessed. “Why is Mr. Greene doing all of this?”

“Oh, doll,” Merle said as he and Daryl pulled up chairs across from her. The younger Dixon had a grim expression on his face that was twisting her stomach into knots. “We need to talk.” 

* * *

_*Snap*_

Shane shifted, leaning just a little farther out the car window to get a better angle on the license plate of the Ford parked on the side of the long, curved driveway of the palatial Greene estate. _Gotcha._ He snapped another picture and maneuvered his way back into his beat up old Dodge, flinging the camera onto the passenger seat.

He’d been here for hours, parked behind a thick hedge of kudzu, tagging license plates and noting the people attending the funeral of Edgar Peletier. He hadn’t wanted to come at all, digging in his heels and spouting off the same old arguments about why he didn’t want in on Dale’s semi-official Greene investigation. They’d done the back and forth dance for an hour before finally settling it to a game of quarters. Three lousy tosses later and here he was, taking cheap snaps like some low down yellow paper slick. It was boring work, tiring in it’s mindlessness, and all Shane really wanted was a damn drink to warm him from the cold winter air. 

“Having fun yet?”

Shane jerked, his elbow accidentally tapping the horn as he twitched to see the tall, lanky figure of his former partner leaning up against his car and smirking at him through the open window.

“ _Fuck’s_ _sake_ , Grimes,” Shane muttered. “Gonna make me snap a cap over here.”

“I figured you’d be alert. On patrol and all.” Rick Grimes pushed his porkpie up on his head and grinned. Shane sighed, pulling a cig and his lighter from his pocket. “Those things’ll kill ya,” Rick continued mockingly.

“So I’m told, but I’ll believe it when I see it.” Shane smiled despite himself. Rick Grimes had been his closest friend, almost a brother. They’d grown up together, gone through together and had been assigned as partners when they were greenies under Dale’s thumb. Rick’s leaving still stung deep and had all but obliterated a friendship Shane had thought was invincible. He wondered what he missed more: a reliable partner or his friend. They kept the banter up pretty well the few times they came across each other until Rick took a job as a beat reporter for the _Atlanta Journal_ , at which point the chief had been clear: Rick was a traitor to the cause, a two face, a rooster. Contact strictly prohibited. Shane smiled despite himself.

“Where you been keeping that gorgeous face of yours?”

“In a deep freeze,” Rick replied. “Bum a smoke?” _Mock me and then steal my cigs? Asshole._ Shane passed over the pack of Camels and flicked the thumb wheel of his old Zippo, holding the flame out for Rick to light his cigarette.

“Whatcha doin’ here, man?” Shane asked quietly. He watched from the corner of his eye without satisfaction as the grin fell from Rick’s face, leaving the former cop looking worn beyond his years.

“You know why I’m here.” _Lord, here we go._

“Rick, I’m not interested in seeing my name show up in tomorrow’s paper.”

“Come _on_ , brother,” Rick urged. “We could really have a shot here. You’re inside still. We could bust it wide open. Tell the world the whole story and make things _better_ in this town.”

“Rick-”

“How many cops are in there with him, Shane? Huh?” Rick demanded. “Five? Ten? Twenty? All of them hobnobbing with the devil, turning their backs on their oaths, on the very people they’re supposed to protect and for what? A few extra cabbage leaves-” 

“And a sweet dish to keep them warm at night,” Shane said. “I got this speech memorized, you know. I’m not fancyin’ a swing around this old maypole of yours again.”

Rick sighed and rubbed a hand along the faint scruff of five o’clock shadow just starting to darken his chin. He looked tired; Shane wondered what demons haunted his old friend at night.

“There ain’t a story here, Rick,” Shane said.

“Then why are you here?”

“Traffic control,” Shane replied dryly. Rick snorted, nodding his head and staring out at the mansion in the distance.

“Traffic control,” Rick repeated. He dropped the remnants of his cig, snubbing out the embers with the heel of his scuffed wingtip. Shane could tell he had something further to say and lit another smoke stick, sucking in a deep breath and letting the nicotine tingle through his system. He waited, keeping his eyes on the Greene house; catching the barest flicker of shadows through the windows as the cold afternoon sun started to fade while Rick shuffled his feet. Finally, he heard the reporter heave a deep sigh. 

“Did you see her?”

Shane groaned and rolled his head, listening to the snap and crackle of the joints popping in his neck. _Lori._ He and Rick had long stopped talking regular by the time Lori had left him for the wealthy walks of life offered by the then newly widowed Hershel Greene. Shane had barely believed the rumors until he’d seen her for himself, dressed to the nines in silk and mink,

She’d pretended she’d never known him, like she’d done every time since.

“Yeah, man,” he sighed. “I saw her. She looked good.” _Always does._ “Does Andrea know you ask about Lori still?”

“How’d you know about Andrea?” Rick looked surprised. Shane grinned.

“Us flatfoots hear things.” It only took a second for the look of scandalized horror to flit across Rick’s face for Shane to realize how that had sounded.

“ _Shane_ -” 

“Just me. I ain’t on the take no more and I ain’t told a soul ‘bout your little blonde honey. Nobody else knows.” Shane rushed to assure the other man. “Can’t a fella keep tabs on his old friend?”

“We’re not friends,” Rick replied shortly. He pushed himself off the car, standing ramrod straight and pulling the brim of his porkpie down. Shane could almost see the tension vibrating off the reporter and the silence between them stretched out like tar, thick and uncomfortable. “This is gonna happen, Shane. I’m bringing down Greene, the force, the whole rotten apple. With or without you.”

“Been talkin’ that same talk for years now,” Shane replied quietly. “Maybe it’s time to let some things go, Rick. Before people get hurt.”

“People are already hurt,” Rick said. “You think Edgar Peletier is dead by accident? Think Greene is throwing the wake out of the goodness of his heart?”

Shane hated this. Hated it because he _knew_ , deep down in his bones, that Rick and Dale were right. Greene was a demon, clawing at the soft underbelly of their fair town, and getting stronger by the day. He owned more than half of Atlanta at this point, including most of the police force. Everyone with half a brain knew it, but no one could prove it. The man was a shadow, slipping silently past every boundary, every trap set to catch him and tangling it all up in a master web of his own with nary a weakness to be found. Shane knew that any attempt to fight was useless, choosing instead to turn the other cheek and simply _not see_. 

“Where’s your proof?” Shane stubbed out the butt of his cigarette on the battered dashboard, leaving a fresh burn alongside the scars of a hundred other cigarette stubs before it. 

“I’ll get it.” Rick seethed with righteous indignation, “Just you wait.” He spun on his heel, almost sprinting to the black Chevrolet parked at the bottom of the hill behind Shane’s own car. He caught a glimpse of the driver - the mousy, bespectacled photo bug who was permanently attached to Rick’s side these days. _Mark? Morton? Milton. That’s it._

Shane watched the other car drive off, his head spinning with a thousand memories that danced with the rumors of Hershel Greene’s empire. _Bring the whole rotten apple down._ He turned back to gaze upon the house again, the glow of lights burning through the windows of the main floor as people mingled and danced inside, the wake in full swing. There was a light coming from one window upstairs; the rest of the floor was dark. He idly wondered who was up there; surely no one would be brazen enough to sneak off for a tryst on Greene’s home turf. 

“Bring the whole rotten apple down,” Shane muttered to himself. It was a fantastical notion, the stuff of bedtime fairytales. There were no chinks in Greene’s armor. The man was invincible, always a hundred steps ahead of the game. What weakness would ever be found that could crack the walls of the Greene dynasty?

* * *

_Son of a bitch. Son of a holy god-forsaken bitch. That low down, rotten, two timing, dirty scumbag. Ed, I hope wherever you are there are devils poking red hot spikes into every orifice of your pasty, fat, useless body._

Vitrol continued to spew forth in Carol’s mind as she sat on the couch and tried to keep her expression calm. They’d talked, the two Dixons, in this spacious, elegant sitting room for the better part of a half hour now. Or, more precisely, _Merle_ had talked, the younger Dixon merely nodding or adding a comment to bolster up his brother’s tale, recounting the sins of her late husband and the severe depth of the debts owed to Hershel Greene. The amount of money owed was astronomical, not to mention the “personal dues” Merle Dixon had hinted at. Debts _she_ was now expected to repay. With interest, apparently.

“So, I’m just supposed to... let these men stay at my home,” she finally said. It was the first time she’d spoken in at least ten minutes and her voice sounded thick and rough to her ears, full of too much emotion held back.

“It _is_ a boardinghouse, ain’t it?” Merle Dixon’s voice was full of withering disdain.

“Yes,” she answered sharply. _Breathe, Carol. Keep it together._ She took a deep, shuddering breath, visibly shaking, but her voice was calmer when she spoke again. “We haven’t had lodgers in two years, but... yes.”

“Must not have been a very good one.”

 “I presume you met Ed at some point,” Carol shot back. “Care to wager a guess why people stopped showing up?” Both men seemed to be holding back a smirk at her words.

“We ran across each other once or twice,” Merle allowed. Carol tilted her head, catching something in the older man’s look that set a lump of hot lead churning in her stomach.

“You killed him,” she whispered. Neither of them were smiling now. 

“What happened to your husband was a tragic accident, but that’s all it was. An _accident_.” It was Daryl who spoke now, his words heavy with the weight of unspoken caution. He was eyeing her carefully, fixed and unblinking. Her skin felt hot and tight, stretched too thin over a mess of wriggling nerves electric with an entirely different kind of tension from his brother. _What the hell?_

“An accident,” she echoed. “The police tell me it was murder, you say it was an accident, Lori Greene says it’s an act of God. Which am I supposed to believe?”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Daryl replied softly. _Well. He certainly doesn’t pull his punches, does he?_

“Got the score, doll?” Merle Dixon was short and to the point now, an almost amused anger flitting across his features.

“Yes,” Carol replied dully. “Do you have any idea how expensive it is to keep that place running smoothly?

“I told you,” Merle replied, speaking to her as if she was a little child. “Money ain’t an issue. Just send me a weekly list of what expenses are due and they’ll be taken care of.”

“That’s just it,” Carol said. “How am I ever going to pay off Ed’s dues if I keep adding to it?”

The silence that answered her was deafening. Merle Dixon was smirking at her. She wanted to slap him. Daryl was staring at her with something akin to sympathy and it hit her. This deal was for life.

She’d been _so close_. So close to tasting independence for the first time, to being able to spend each day as a woman of her own choosing, without the hulking shadow of Ed’s fist threatening her from the edges of her sight or the dull righteous fury of her mother threatening her memory. _So damn close_ to being able to live by her own rules, freedom skimming just past the tips of her fingers to dance away in the wind, leaving her bereft and abandoned in its wake. Instead she’d found that even in death Ed had managed to keep her trapped, trading one prison for another.

“So I provide shelter, laundry, food, housekeeping and ‘cover’, as you said,” Carol said slowly. “I’m not going to be expected to _do_ anything-”

 “I don’t want to know what you’re about to imply here, Mrs. Peletier,” Merle said smoothly. “We are simply businessmen who all happen to work for the same employer, in need of a nice place to live. You’re just the landlady.” His voice was oily with the practiced smarm of a used car salesman, a snake in the grass, waiting to pounce.

“And if I get a request for other lodgers? From outside of your little group?”

“Run it by us first.” Merle stood, clearly indicating his involvement in this conversation was finished. _Really, what was there left to say?_ “Speaking of running, I believe we all have things to take care of downstairs. If we’re all clear here?”

Carol nodded, robbed of speech in the midst of the shattered remnants of any hope she’d ever had for escape. She stared at the lush, thick carpet as he left, listening to the door open and close. Her head throbbed and she wanted to cry, but no tears came.

“Y’allright, little bird?” She hadn’t realized Daryl was still sitting in his chair, balancing his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together as he leaned towards her.

She _was_ a bird, thinking she’d finally escaped to the vast blue skies only to realize she was just in a larger cage. 

_I hope it hurts where you are, Ed. I hope to god you suffer until the end of days._

“What am I supposed to do if I have problems with any of your people?” she asked suddenly, thinking of the loutish men she’d stumbled upon before the wake had started.

“Merle and I will be on hand to settle any issues that may come up,” Daryl replied. “Though I don’ expect none. Our boys’ll behave.”

“You and Merle,” Carol said flatly. She hadn’t realized the Dixons would be included amongst her new tenants.

“That all right with you?”

“Do I even have a choice?”

Daryl coughed a laugh, pulling a flask from his inside jacket pocket and taking a long pull. He stood and held his hand out to her.

“Ready to go back?” He wasn’t really asking. Carol could tell the unspoken command in his voice. _Time to go downstairs and play your part again. The show must go on._

“If I say no,” Carol said suddenly, “no to all of this… If I run to the police or if I just _run_... what happens to me?”

She’d half hoped for kindness from the younger Dixon; he didn’t seem nearly as dark as his older brother. So she was surprised at the cold, somewhat calculating look that dropped like a shade down his handsome face.

“Do you really expect me to answer that?” Daryl replied grimly. 

No, she had no choice. Carol knew any choice she had died a long time ago, well before her brute of a husband had breathed his last. She’d belonged to someone her whole life: her controlling, religious mother; Ed, in a marriage that had never been of her choosing. Maybe she’d never had a choice in anything. It didn’t matter; she knew who she belonged to now.

  
She belonged to Hershel Greene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Here is a brief history lesson, based on a question raised by my wonderful beta im0rca, regarding Rick & Shane joking about cigarettes: The first study on the effect of tar & nicotine on the human body was conducted in 1928. Results showed that smoking "could have" some harmful effects, including possibly causing lung cancer. The first caution from the Surgeon General regarding the dangers of smoking was issued in 1929, but until the Surgeon General actually issued a full, separate report on Smoking and Health (in 1964) the general cautions against smoking were regarded as something of a joke by the general populace, including most doctors.


	6. High-Steppin' Flatfoots

_**A/N:**  Hi there, wonderful people. I'm sorry for the length of time in between updates. I've actually had most of this written for a while now, but when you work 6 shows a week on top of your day job, things get a little hectic. Sleep? Who sleeps?_

_I wanted to address something that's been brought up to me really quickly before we jump in: this is a **slow burn** story. Everything about this story is building up to something huge and weaving together... so just stick with me, k? Trust me._

_As always, thanks to the infinitely amazing imorca, for her continued patience in dealing with my ramblings and panic attacks, and for everyone who has read and reviewed this story thus far. I need the encouragement, so it means a lot to me!_

_Enough from me. To the story!_

* * *

**High-Steppin' Flatfoots**

Shane groaned and threw the papers down on his desk. He'd spent too many days pounding the pavement, following false lead after false lead, followed by too many long nights spent bent over paperwork by the dim light of his desk lamp. A solid month of work and research and what did he have to show for it? Dick. Zilch. Nada. Nothing. Not one damn fucking thing to give any bit of creedence that there was a murderer at all. He felt as ragged as a wino after Mardi Gras; his eyes bleary, red and scratchy and two days worth of stubble growth on his chin. His entire being cried out for the sweet nectar of hooch to calm his nerves and warm his belly.  _Lord Almighty, my life for a drink._

"You look like you need a cup of joe." Shane looked up to see Dale in his plainclothes standing in the entryway to his office.

"Got anything stronger?"

"Talk to me," Dale said as he sauntered in to lean against the dust covered spare desk that belonged to a partner Shane didn't have.

"Well, based on the staggering amount of evidence, we can safely conclude that a fucking ghost shot ol' Eddy P.," Shane replied.

"So... nothing?"

"Not a fucking thing," Shane said bitterly. "No fingerprints, no marks, no tire treads at the site except the ones from our own damn cars, not even a speck of dust on the stiff. Only things we know for sure is that he was beaten first and, judgin' by the extra large hole smack between his eyes, the fat bastard spent the last seconds of his life pissing himself while staring down the barrel of a .45."

Dale sighed and produced a snowy white handkerchief from his pocket to pat away the scattering of dust that had jumped from the abandoned desk to the hip of his blue flannel suit.

"Tell me what we know about Peletier himself," Dale said. He slumped down into one of the two chairs in front of Shane's desk. "He the type of man to have enemies?"

"Small fish," Shane replied, using the term he'd associated with Peletier more than once in the past month. "Every bartender in town, from Donald at Hartigan's to Chuck at Lucky Baldwin's knew him when I showed his picture. Even managed to sneak in to see the Rhee kid at The Five O'Clock Club. Nothing major in his past except a couple parking tickets and calls for some bad checks that never stuck."

"What about the wife?" Dale asked.

"Carol Sullivan, only child of John and Ruth Sullivan, down in Calhoun county. Married to Peletier for fifteen years. They had a daughter, died a few years ago. Kid couldn't have been more than 10, maybe 12."

"Shame," Dale murmured.

"Folks around town say Mrs. P is quiet, keeps to herself," Shane continued, ignoring Dale's comment. "Eddy kept a real tight leash on her."

"Domestic troubles?"

"Pretty extreme. Checked out the hospital records on a whim. If he  _wasn't_  laying his hands on her then she's just about the clumsiest broad in town."

"Any chance she arranged the disposal of her husband?"

"I thought so at first," Shane replied. "She certainly doesn't act like the typical widow would."

He'd met with the Widow Peletier half a dozen times in the past month and each time he left feeling more befuddled than when he'd arrived. She defied all his previous experience: she wasn't delved deep in mourning, or numb with shock, or gleeful with devilish delight. She simply accepted the death of her husband as one of those things that just happened in life and was apparently doing her best to simply move on. It was incredibly rare in his line of work to meet someone who wasn't working some kind of angle, and yet he couldn't find any twist to the woman's words. It didn't mean he wasn't wary of her, still.  _Everyone_  had an angle, sooner or later. Shane told himself that was why he kept thinking about the auburn-haired widow; he was just trying to figure out her angle. It had nothing to do with the graceful arch of her neck or her long, slender fingers or her gentle, quiet voice that held just the barest hint of deep country drawl…

"Shane!"

He jumped in his chair. He hadn't realized he'd drifted off in front of Dale, who was now regarding him with a twinkle in his eye that Shane did  _not_  like.

"Naw, man," Shane said. "I don't think she's involved in this." Dale sucked on his teeth, the noise sending a shiver of irritation down Shane's spine.

"Heard tell in town today Judge Frampton awarded Mrs. Peletier sole ownership of the house  _and_  the land," Dale said slowly. "All four acres. Ain't that something?"

"Yeah, heard that myself," Shane replied. That particular piece of news was why he'd spent the last hours pouring over the Peletier file for the hundredth time, trying to find any kind of link, a hint of a rumor,  _something_ that would shed some light on this case.

"Ol' judge must have been feeling kindly towards the woman, what with her husband whacked off."

"Whatcha gettin' at, Dale?"

"Could be Greene," Dale said, reminding Shane of his former partner.  _If it's not one, it's the other._

"Where's our proof, Dale?" Shane asked."Huh?"

"Shane-"

" _No_ , goddammit! Don't you see?" Shane ripped open the deep drawer at the bottom of his desk that held his case files, pulling own stacks of paper bound with rubber bands and flinging them on his desk. "Peletier, the Smith boy, the Hispanic fella we found on the train tracks, the John Doe two months ago and the warehouse fire just before Christmas. The body count is climbing in this damn town and every single time the damn trail runs cold. Runs cold  _fast_. Every single time, you say it's Greene, Rick says it's Greene, even  _I_ think it's Greene but lemme ask you something, man... How do we chase him without any  _goddamn proof_?!"

The words bounced around the tiny office, ringing loud and leaving Shane sick to his stomach as his brain finally caught up to his mouth, realizing just how much he'd let slip in his little tirade. Surprisingly, Dale looked to be fighting back a smirk. The silence stretched between them, thick like taffy with Dale's barely concealed glee and Shane's simmering frustration until Dale finally broke.

"About damn time, Walsh," he grinned. "Looks like I can fill you in on the plan now."

_The hell?_

"What plan?"

"Sit down, son." Dale gently pushed Shane until he dropped back into his desk chair. "This comes straight from the chief himself."

* * *

Market Street at noon was a bustle of people and cars, vendors calling out to shop their goods to to the people making their way around. Sweet potatoes, string beans, okra, cabbage, apples, carrots, onions so big it would take two hands to hold them. Wheels of cheese, baskets of eggs, huge, thick loaves of fresh bread. People pushed and pulled at each other to take their turns at each vendor's counter, smiling and waving to familiar faces, all of them unaware of the dark violence that constantly churned just below the surface. Shane took no notice of any of them, pulling his coat tight to him against the early spring wind as his mind spun out of control.

The talk with Dale had gone on until almost dawn, Shane battering him with a hundred questions as the plan unfolded between them.  _Ridiculous_ , Shane had declared at first, but as the details has come together Shane found himself agreeing with it against his will.  _Maybe, just maybe… This could work._

A chance for change, maybe; a chance to actually catch the beast that clawed at the underbelly of their fair town, definitely. That was all they needed, really. Just a  _chance_ -

 _SMACK!_  He hadn't been paying attention and had run straight into someone. A basket fell at their feet, the morning's shopping spilling out everywhere.

"I am so sorry," he stuttered out, dropping to his knees to catch the sweet potatoes that had tumbled out onto the sidewalk and stuffing them back into the basket.

"It's all right."

"No, ma'am, I should have been payin' better attention-" Shane finished stuffing the basket full again and looked up, his words falling short in the face of Carol Peletier.

"Why, hello Detective Walsh," she said.

"Mrs. Peletier." Shane straightened up, the smile flitting across his face against his will. "How are you this morning?"

"It's afternoon now, Detective," she replied archly. "I thought detectives were naturally observant?"

"Everyone gets an off day now and again."

She smiled at his joke and Shane felt himself smiling back, suddenly warm to his toes despite the cold wind blowing the last damp vestiges of last night's rain across Market Street.  _Goddamn, she's a lovely piece._ He'd thrown some of his best lines at her in the past month, sneaking them in nearly every time they'd met to discuss the case. He'd gotten nary a smile or a wink or even a blush in return, his well practiced charm sliding past like dust in the wind. It intrigued him. It wasn't often he was turned down, much less ignored. He was getting up the gumption to give it yet another go before he found himself blocked by his old shadow.

"Well, fancy running into the two of you here," Rick Grimes said as he sidled up to them. Shane felt his jaw clench at the same time he saw the smile slide off Carol's face.

"You're like a bad stench, man," Shane grumbled.

"Mr. Grimes," Carol acknowledged the reporter with a definite chill in her voice.

"Mrs. Peletier, if I could just-" Rick was cut off with a sharp twist of her head.

"I have nothing further to say beyond what I've already told you." Shane watched the woman level a cold stare in Rick's direction, her eyes hard as ice. It was a deeply unsettling look to grace her features, one he hadn't thought she was capable of.  _She just keeps surprising you._  "Good day, gentlemen."

"Ma'am," Shane replied automatically, wedging himself in front of Rick to let her pass and make her way up the row of vegetable stands. He was aware of Rick peering over his shoulder like a bad comedy version of pirate's parrot, watching him watch her leave and tried to pull his eyes up from the sway of her hips.

"She sure is something," Rick said with feigned nonchalance. "Doesn't seem like much of anything at first glance, but somehow you just keep coming back for more."  _Is he reading my mind now?_

"Whatcha want, Rick?" Shane was impatient now, his former friend setting his nerves on edge.

"No news on the Peletier case, is there?"

"Man, talk to Jefferson about that nonsense. He does press, not me."

"I'm only asking cause, all of a sudden, it seems Mrs. Peletier's boarding house is quite full." Rick was following him as Shane twisted his way through the crowd, taking the opposite direction Carol Peletier had gone. There were far too many people around for Shane's comfort and Rick was making no attempt to be quiet.  _Damn fool._  He moved faster, trying to shake the reporter from his tail.

"Point bein'?"

Rick reached out and grabbed Shane by the elbow. Shane jerked his arm free and spun around, his fist half raised to meet Rick's face before he caught himself.  _Too many witnesses._ He wasn't above using his fists to make a point, or speed the occasional interrogation along, but never in public and never Rick. There was just too much history there.

"My point being," Rick drawled slowly, eyes fixed on him and gleaming like a kid unwrapping the last piece of candy, "that everyone living there has some association to Hershel Greene… including Merle  _and_  Daryl Dixon."

" _What?!_ " It blurted out of him before he could think and the look of glee on Rick's face made his stomach squirm. He couldn't stop himself though, and knew he was feeding into Rick's hand, too eager for more of this new information. "Youre sure?"

Rick produced several rolled up pieces of paper from the depths of his coat. They were wide and shiny; photographs. All of them featuring the Peletier establishment in the background and several familiar cars and even more familiar faces. Shane spotted the Dixons as well as Thom Crowley and a few others he didn't know offhand.  _Shit._  Someone bumped into him from behind and Shane jolted back into awareness of just where they were.

"When were these taken?" Shane asked quietly.

"Yesterday," Rick said smugly.

Shane's mind was spinning, racing ahead, full of doors suddenly creaking open.  _A chink in the armor…_

"I gotta go." He was running, leaving a shocked looking Rick in his dust, rudely pushing his way through the crowd without apology, insults falling short in his wake as he put all his energy into getting off Market Street. He ran a block, three, five, sweat pouring down his neck and soaking his collar until he was sure he wasn't being followed. He slammed into a phone booth and shoved himself inside, pulled a nickel out of his pocket and dialing with shaking fingers.

 _I may be a drunk halfwit dick, but I know sure as shit that woman isn't having them there by choice. She can't be. Pick up, pick up, pick up._ The ringing seemed interminable and he was starting to despair of actually getting an answer when the connection finally clicked.

"Dale," Shane said, gasping into the phone. "Dale, it's me. I think…. I think I got somethin'... That squad, the gangster squad… the one to hunt Greene… I'm in."


	7. The Five O'Clock Club

_**A/N:**  Thank you to the amazing imorca as always for her magnificent beta skills and her endless patience with my ramblings about each chapter. My muse is hot for this story right now. And to whomever nominated this for TheCarylDaily's Fanfic Awards - I love you more than I can say._

_I know this is a slower burn than a lot of you are used to, but I promise this will be well worth the wait!_

* * *

**Chapter 7: The Five O'Clock Club**

The Five O'Clock Club was Atlanta's own little slice of Hollywood style, mixing Southern class with just enough sparkle and splash of the modern age to make the place seem almost new. Before Prohibition, Atlanta's elite had frequented the bar and front dining room, but bankruptcy left only dust bunnies sipping from the dried up watering hole. The building had played host the first of Hershel Greene's business ventures: a modest, but popular, speakeasy located in what now served as the club's dressing and store rooms. Now, Greene owned The Five O'Clock Club outright and had transformed the formerly modest building into the hottest ticket in town.

The space itself was a giant circle, the walls gently curving towards the stage that spanned almost the whole length of the far wall. The tiered stage and the polished dance floor were bright beneath the high, stained glass dome ceiling and the special lights Greene had shipped all the way from Tinsel Town. The dining areas were darker; two levels, one lower than the other - the tables dressed to the nines with fine linens and polished silver - surrounded the dance floor. The long oak paneled bar itself was the only holdover from the original club, situated on the left side of the room behind the top row of dining tables. Along the sloping walls was a series of dimly lit semi-circular booths, each one separated by a tastefully chosen screen or huge, leafy potted plant.

Daryl sat in the booth closest to the bar, letting the smoke from his cigarette curl and dance around him as he waited for the Rhee kid to finish fixing his drink. The doors hadn't officially opened yet, but there were a few scattered patrons, mostly button men but Daryl caught a glimpse of a city judge with a particularly attractive brunette, as well as the two off duty policemen taking shots at the bar. He let a wry smile twist his lips as he took a long drag, letting the rush of tobacco seep through his veins and soothe his nerves, his thoughts full of his employer.

Greene had prospered during Prohibition, taking over a small time bootlegging operation and building it until he was the primary mover of alcohol from the South to the Northern states. The operation was huge, branching from Atlantic City to the Big Apple and even Chicago, providing the sweet liquid that was more precious than gold to Capone himself. Many had wondered if the end of Prohibition would be the end of Greene's empire, but the old man was shrewd with backup plans for his backup plans. He'd rubbed shoulders with most of the judges and political power in Atlanta, in addition to secret financial arrangements from "out of town", to keep himself in the black and had built an empire that served as the silent, sometimes shadow partner of everyone and everything in Dixieland. As it stood today he seemed unstoppable, as big as any of the Five Families, those Italian idiots that couldn't keep their noses out of the news for five minutes. Daryl, like all his Irish brethren, scorned the hothead garlic-eaters, but at the same time he wondered if they shouldn't be taking more cues from the misfortunes of the North.

They had trouble,  _serious_  trouble. The bookies that ran the area south of the railroad tracks were coming in suddenly requesting higher pay. The order for interrogation had been sent down when the fourth schmoe in a week had come in with the same request; during the beat down the Smith brat ( _Johnny? Jackie? Fuck all if he could remember_ ) spilled that they were getting better offers from a new guy on the scene. Bookies were replaceable easy, enough button men were hot for the gambling action and would do well there, but it was the amount of leg work involved in disposing of the traitors and ensuring the continued cooperation of the leftovers that took time and attracted attention.

It wasn't just the bookies anymore, either. The shift manager at the rail yard plus two of the customs officials, the taxi service centered downtown and, most concerning to Greene so far, one of the handlers for the small but promising narcotics circles on the west end had all reported issues with their dailies, either in requests for more money or more protection. To make matters worse, they couldn't get a beat on the guy causing the problems. All they had was a name; not a face or known associates or even a damn location, just a name:  _Philip Blake_.

It was enough of a shakeup that the mysterious Mr. Blue, Greene's financier, was flying in to discuss matters. Daryl had never met Mr. Blue; as far as he knew,  _no one_  had. The man was a ghost and worked hard to keep it that way, known only by his colorful  _nom de plume_ , so fierce it opened any safe in any bank east of the Mississippi. If Mr. Blue was coming, things were definitely sour.

"This racket keeps up, we'll  _all_  be named in the papers," he muttered aloud.

"Excuse me, sir?"  _Fuck._  Daryl had been so lost in his own thoughts he hadn't noticed the bartender arrive with his drink. The Rhee kid was nosy as fuck, but mixed drinks like nobody's business and worked on the cheap.  _Probably what's kept him alive so far._

"Never mind, kid," Daryl said, gesturing for his drink. "Give it here, keep the change." Daryl flicked a quarter at Rhee, who caught it deftly in one hand as he set the two fingers of whiskey on the table. Daryl nodded, expecting him to leave but the kid stayed, shuffling nervously on the balls of his feet. Goddammit. "What?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Dixon-"

"Christ, kid, I already told ya: Mr. Dixon is my brother. Call me Daryl," he interrupted, not unkindly.

"Yes, sir." Rhee was definitely nervous, not entirely unusual for him around the higher ranks of Greene's gang. Daryl was half tempted to offer the young barkeep his own drink if it would stop the jittering. "I just… Jim quit today." Daryl's brow scrunched in confusion.

"Who the fuck is Jim?"

"One of the waiters, sir," Rhee replied. "Left a note at the bar, no notice. He was supposed to work tonight."

"Why are you talking to me about this? Ain't Parker the manager here? Tell him."

"I-I would, sir, except it isn't just Jim... Larry quit, too... an-and Parker called in sick again, told m-m-me to keep an eye on things tonight."

_Parker was sick again? That's the third time this month… shit and shinola._

"Tell me your first name again," Daryl said.

"Um… Glenn," the bartender replied. "Glenn Rhee."

"Glenn, call Theodore at Lincoln-Oh-Six-Eight, give him the message  _exactly_  like you just told me, minus the stuttering," Daryl barked. "He'll have people here in a half hour to cover. Who's on tonight?"

"The usual band," Rhee replied.

"Not Michonne?"

"No, sir, she's scheduled for tomorrow."

"Good," Daryl sighed. "That's one drama I didn't need tonight." Daryl grabbed the tumbler and knocked his drink back in one gulp. "Get to callin', now. And kid?"

"Yes, Mr. Di-Daryl, sir?"

Daryl gestured him closer with his free hand, pulling out a wad of bills and stuffing a couple in Rhee's vest pocket. "You did good. Keep it up, but keep this on the down low, 'kay? And bring me another, but double the double, will ya? I'm fuckin' parched over here."

"Yes, sir."

He was gone and back in a flash, Daryl's drink refilled and back on the table almost before he could blink. Daryl wasn't positive the sudden loss of two members of staff at the club was Blake, but it was better to be safe than sorry.  _Looks like I've got a few extra stops to make tonight._

"Having a rough night already? It's early, sugar." Daryl looked up at the blonde with more curves than a sine wave settling herself on the other side of his booth.

"Whattya want, Andrea?" he drawled. He almost grinned. Despite himself, he nearly  _liked_  Andrea Harrison. He didn't trust her as far as she could pick him up and throw him with her little matchstick arms, but she wasn't half bad for a high class whore, although  _she_  preferred the term 'Madame'. She'd have made a good man, if fate had played her hand differently. She performed as the simpering blonde with her clients, but with Greene's men she was sharp as a tack.

"I'm looking for Merle," Andrea said simply.

"Why?" Daryl asked. He leaned back against the plush blue velvet seat, rolling his neck and listening to the snap and pop of his tired bones.

"A mutual friend is having me set up some entertainment for his out of town buddy," Andrea said with a smirk, sliding a folded paper across the table to him. "I'm supposed to discuss the details with big brother."

Daryl arched his eyebrow at the madame as he stubbed out the end of his cigarette in his ashtray and picked up the paper. To him, the idea of Andrea being anywhere near Mr. Blue was a bad idea, but seeing the instructions on the piece of paper, written in  _Greene's own hand_ … well, it wasn't up to him.

"You taking personal orders now?" Daryl asked archly.

"Of course not," Andrea replied. "Woke up and found that in my mailbox this afternoon. It's him, isn't it?" Daryl took a long, slow sip of his drink, the alcohol settling low and warm in his belly. Conversation with Andrea required careful, practiced handling. Tip your hand too much and she'd have you by the balls; tell her too little and she'd know you were lying.

Men were always spilling their secrets to her and why not? Andrea was  _good_  at her job. Bits and pieces of information sometimes showed up around town that Daryl  _knew_  came from Andrea, slight dramas were caused but always quickly settled. It was never serious and Daryl had quietly "forgotten" to pass his knowledge of the source up higher. Daryl didn't have it in him to harm a woman, knew it was his Achilles heel, but he couldn't say the same for Merle or most of the other members of the gang. It didn't make Andrea any less of a spider, though, and men were her flies, caught in a honeyed web of blonde hair and perfumed skin.

"Yeah," Daryl said, deciding a little honesty worked in his favor for the moment. "It's him."

"Jesus," Andrea muttered. "I need a drink."

Daryl raised a finger signaling Rhee again, who had Andrea's usual order of an elementary martini on the table quick as a jackrabbit.  _Kid does good work_. Andrea spun the stick around her glass before pulling it out, tapping it delicately along the rim before popping a plump green olive through her ruby red lips. They both turned towards the stage as the spot came on, highlighting the band in their white coats as they struck up the first tune of the night. Daryl stayed quiet, listening for just a minute to the smooth, brassy sound of the trumpet fill the club.

"So," Andrea asked, all practiced nonchalance, "Merle coming in tonight?"

"Nope," Daryl smirked. "You wanna see him so bad, you're gonna have to go to him."

Andrea grimaced, letting her olive stick drop back into her martini with a plop. Daryl knew she much preferred to meet with him and Merle on neutral territory. Not that The Five O'Clock Club was exactly  _neutral_ , but it was public enough that Daryl knew she felt safer there. He supposed, in her shoes, he'd feel the same.

"Every time I walk into the Hibernian, the concierge gives me the stink eye," Andrea said. "You may want to discuss that with him."

"Ain't at the Hibernian anymore," Daryl replied.

"Oh yes, I heard you fellas had moved," Andrea said with a grin.  _Shit._  "How's it living at a… boarding house?"

"It's fine," Daryl replied shortly.

The house itself wasn't so bad. The place was enormous, enough room for them all to have their own space without feeling on top of each other. The widow kept it clean and the food was better than anything he'd eaten in years. No, his problem was the Widow Peletier herself. She put on a good front, but Daryl knew she was cautious of the horde of men she found herself suddenly living with. Skittish as a new colt, he'd realized early on that she never turned her back to any of them and always kept the door in her line of sight. Daryl wondered just how much of a bastard Eddy Peletier had really been to make her this way. Daryl knew she had no idea she was housing her husband's killer and despite her surprising display of indifference to Peletier's corpse at the wake, he doubted she'd take the news well. He, himself, was finding it to be highly unsettling, living with the wife of a man he'd killed. It was her eyes, he'd decided, the same striking blue as a bluebird's wings. They haunted him at night as he tossed and turned in his bed, always waking up in the morning tangled in sheets damp with sweat and blue eyes on his mind…

"What was  _that_?"

"What was what?" Daryl asked, looking around at the club.

"You," Andrea said, eyebrows arched up almost to her hairline. "What  _was_  that?"

Daryl realized he'd lost himself in his own thoughts for the second time that night and cursed internally. The Rhee kid was bad, but doing it in front of Andrea was worse.

"None of your damn business, Andrea," he snapped. "Keep your nose in the job and out of my business." A commotion at the door caught his attention and he sighed in relief.  _Thank the good Lord almighty, T's here._  Daryl watched as Theodore Douglas, Greene's favorite chauffeur and messenger boy, made his way to the bar, speaking quickly with Rhee before crossing over to Daryl's booth.

"Good evening, Mister Dixon," the bald man greeted him. To everyone else, he was simply called by his surname Douglas, but to a select few, he was simply 'T'.

"Hey T," Daryl said. "Got things settled?"

"Done and dusted," T replied. "No trouble at all."

"Good," Daryl said. "Don't s'pose you can drive Miss Harrison here on her errand? She's in a big hurry." He caught Andrea glaring at him and bit back a grin, pleased with himself at cutting their conversation short.

"Sure can," T replied. "Got this for you as well." He handed Daryl a sealed envelope, which Daryl stuffed into his inner jacket pocket without comment. He knew the contents would keep him busy for the next several days. "You may wanna split fast, Daryl," T continued. "I'm supposed to pick up Mrs. Greene in an hour and bring her here to see the show."

"Oh  _fuck_  that," Daryl spat out. He quickly slurped down the last dregs of his drink to the tune of Andrea's raucous laughter and leapt to his feet. He was not in a mood to deal with The Banshee, who seemed to regard him, as well as well as most of the men, as little more than pond scum. Daryl left Andrea and T at the table without another word, crossing quickly to the cloakroom and retrieving his coat and fedora from the dame inside.

Daryl jammed his hat on his head, flipping up his collar as he stepped outside, past the throngs of citizens hoping to score a chance to get inside the club that night, his mind abuzz with a hundred different plans at once.  _Focus, Dixon._  He was in his car, key in the ignition, when the thought struck him that sending Andrea to the boarding house to deal with Merle may not have been the best idea.  _One look at the widow and she's gonna know **exactly**  where your head went tonight._

"Dammit," Daryl mumbled. He pulled the envelope out and ripped the flap open. Sure enough, it was the dailies from Greene. Daryl pulled his car out and headed towards the home of the unfortunate Parker Jones, soon to be The Five O'Clock Club's  _former_  manager.

* * *

_**A/N:**  The Five O'Clock Club was an actual club in Atlanta (on the corner of Peachtree and Forsythe). The club itself no longer exists, but it primarily served, during the 1920's-30's and again in the mid-50's, as a burlesque, although it did have a short stint as a small time jazz club. I've re-imagined it as a high class mob-run jazz club for the purposes of this story, mostly because I dig the name._


	8. One of us

_**A/N:**  Hi again. If anybody is reading this, thank you for sticking with me. I'm playing a very big picture story here, with a slow Caryl burn, which I know isn't most people's cup of tea. So for those of you here, thank you._

* * *

**Chapter 8: One of Us**

Carol sat at the large, round kitchen table, going over her list. Tomorrow was Friday, which was the day she changed the linens and also did her prep work for the weekend's cooking. There were also floors to be washed, the stairs to be scrubbed, the bannister to be waxed and the rug in the front parlor needed to be turned. With two stories, not including the attic or the basement, and fourteen rooms, the work was almost never ending.

For all the fuss of suddenly finding herself an unwitting servant, Carol realized she was rather enjoying the routine work that came with a full house of boarders. Ed had single handedly destroyed the business with his drunken rages and sober manipulations. Though her hand had been forced, Carol was finding bits and pieces of her day to enjoy.

She had five full time lodgers and five of what the elder Dixon had called "floaters" - a rotating posse of men who came to stay, never longer than a week nor less than two days. She knew they were cogs in the machine of Greene's operation. She wasn't told why she was to keep the five top floor rooms clean and available and she didn't ask. It was one of the rules.

The rules, as it turned out, were fairly simple: provide two meals a day, breakfast and dinner, regardless of who actually showed up. Keep the house itself clean, which was nearly a full time job in itself. Submit her weekly list of expenses to either of the Dixons, due in hand to them by Friday morning. It was a humiliation she tried to manage with as much grace as possible, keeping her head held high as every week she handed over the physical reminder of a debt she'd never escape. Finally, and most important, ask no questions and keep her mouth shut.  _Play your role_ , Merle Dixon's oft chanted instruction, marched frequently through her head. A terse conversation with him Merle Dixon had let Carol know just how fine of a line she had walked at Ed's wake, snapping off the way she had. It became clear just how expendable she was. The judge had given her sole proprietorship of the house and the land, but it was a sham; Greene had the deed, even if he buried the fact in a shadow corporation. According to Merle, her life itself was a gift, mostly so Greene didn't have to host two wakes in a month.  _Play your role, indeed._  She was to the point where the next person who said that phrase to her was going to get a tongue lashing the likes of which they'd never seen. It was getting harder and harder to hold herself back.

Carol stretched her arms up over her head, listening to her spine crackle and pop, and made her way over to a side table, wedged between the Civil War era sideboard and the wall, upon which sat an old, battered turntable. Everyone except Merle Dixon was out of the house that night, so she felt safe in indulging herself a little. She loaded the flat, scuffed disk and positioned the needle; a few seconds of the scratch of white noise made Carol twitch before the plaintive crooning of Billie Holliday filled the room. Carol smiled and poured herself a cup of coffee before settling back at the table to finish the expense list for the week.

She loved music, especially blues and jazz, which Ed had detested. He'd gone on a spree during one alcohol-fueled weekend years ago and smashed a good portion of her collection, which she'd inherited from her father. She'd found bits of black vinyl from the shattered discs caught in the carpet for days after. Carol thanked her lucky stars that Ed had lost interest after only smashing a couple dozen records. Once he'd passed out, she'd hidden the bulk of her collection in the old kitchen sideboard, a place Ed never looked. It was her one victory in all the long, wasted years she'd spent under her husband's thumb, so tiny but infinitely precious.

The knock of someone at the front door pulled her from her inner reverie.  _Who comes to call at nine o'clock at night?_  Carol shuddered as she walked down the hall to the front door. Recent events had made her weary of unexpected visitors. The vision that greeted her as she pulled open the door gave her pause. Far from the hulking figure of another mysterious mobster, the sultry blonde who looked as if she'd been poured into her little black dress glowed as she caught the reflection from the old gas lamps that still lit the front porch. The woman quickly cast her eye over Carol, who was feeling suddenly frumpish in her old green dress and worn day heels.

"Can I help you?" Carol asked hesitantly.

"I hope so," the woman smiled. "I'm here to see Merle Dixon."

Carol blinked in surprise. This was the first visitor to come to the house since the gang had moved in. None of the men had brought any women home and Carol was hoping the streak would last a little longer. Not even her fear of Merle Dixon and Hershel Greene would let her consent to turning her home into a flophouse.  _Stick to the basics._

"Is he expecting you?"

"Not at all," the blonde smiled again, "but he'll see me anyway. Andrea Harrison."

Carol opened the door wider and allowed Andrea to step inside, leading her into the living room to wait while Carol fetched Merle. She nearly ran up the stairs and down the long hall to where Merle Dixon now lived. Carol had gladly surrendered use of the master bedroom she'd shared, taking her personal items and her cedar chest downstairs and settling into the never-used maid's quarters, the small bedroom and bathroom tucked off a narrow hallway behind the kitchen. She had her own door that lead out to the sprawling wood planked porch that wrapped around two thirds of the house, with a view of the side yard and the peach grove that covered most of the property. Carol liked it more than the huge master suite. Let Merle Dixon stew in that haunted space with the echoes of her screams and Ed's fists.

She rapped three times, waiting for the hoarse rasp of "enter" to reach her ears before opening the door and stepping in. Merle sat amid a heavy cloud of cigar smoke at the large oak desk he'd brought with him, his shirtsleeves rolled up over his thick arms and papers scattered on the desk and the floor around him. Carol was used to it by now; the man was a mess.

"What?" Merle barked at her without turning around.

"You have a lady here to see you," Carol replied archly. "Andrea Harrison?" Merle snorted, turning his head to cast her a weary glance over his shoulder.

"Doll, if you knew her you'd know she ain't no lady," he growled. "Tell her I'll be right down, then make yourself scarce."

Carol spun without a word and nearly tripped over her own feet going down the stairs to deliver the message. Andrea merely nodded before returning to her inspection of the living room, her back to Carol. She bristled, despite herself.  _What kind of a woman turns her back to another like that?_ She opened her mouth, about to either offer the blonde a cup of coffee or a sarcastic comment of making sure the house met her standards, Merle's heavy step on the stairs made them both turn. Carol bolted, making her way back to the safe haven of her brightly lit kitchen, leaning against the wall with a sigh of relief.

Carol lowered the volume on the record player, not wanting to disturb the meeting happening at the front of the house but unwilling to surrender the comfort of Billie's sweet singing as she returned to finishing the week's expense report. Her hands shook so bad she could barely hold the pen, awkward scribbles jittering their way across the page until she crumpled up the paper and tossed it over her shoulder with a low groan of frustration.

Her papa had always said people would be a lot less anxious if they just remembered how to breathe, so she gave it a shot, sucking in loud, deep breaths through her mouth and counting to four before slowly breathing out through her nose.  _God damn it, its one visitor. Just stop thinking about it._  A few more breaths mingled with the smoky sound of the blues worked their magic to soothe her nerves and she grabbed a fresh sheet of paper and rattled through everything that needed to be on the list before signing her name at the bottom. She folded the paper and tucked it into an envelope, scrawling the date across the top in her round, Palmer-method script. She'd give it to Daryl in the morning, if she caught him. The younger Dixon was rarely in the house, flitting in and out quicker than a shadow being chased by the sun, whereas Merle rarely left.

"Mind if I grab a cup of coffee?"

Carol twisted around to see Andrea leaning against the entryway to the kitchen with a smirk on her ruby lips. She jumped up and snagged an extra cup without a word, watching the gorgeous, stylish woman settle herself at the kitchen table. Carol felt incredibly plain as she poured coffee with jittery hands, too aware of her own frizzy hair and her worn dress that was several years out of fashion.

"So," Andrea said as Carol passed her the mug of joe, "is it me or Merle?"

"Excuse me?" Carol asked.

"You're nervous," Andrea said with a smirk. "Is it me or Merle that makes you nervous?"

The woman was good, Carol had to give her that. She remembered Detective Walsh, the night he came to tell her about Ed and his unwavering gaze fixed on her, leaving her wondering just how much he saw. This Andrea clearly had similar observation skills.

"Honestly?" Carol smiled sheepishly, causing Andrea to give a giant, lusty laugh in response. Something clicked and Carol found herself starting to relax slightly.

"Gotcha," Andrea replied. "Don't worry, I don't bite."

"Not on your first visit, at least?" The instant the words left her lips, she groaned internally.  _What is_ _ **wrong**_ _with you, Carol?_  "I'm sorry. That was horribly rude. Sometimes I let my mouth get away from me." Andrea was shaking her head, arching an amused eyebrow in her direction.

"Very good," she murmured approvingly. "The little bird has some fire to her after all."

"People tend to underestimate me."

"More fool for them." Andrea ran a polished finger around the rim of her mug. "I was at the funeral, you know. Nice speech."

"I'm so sorry you saw that. I didn't know what I was saying." Carol spouted the answer Merle Dixon had dictated for her. "It was all so… so crazy… everything was so unexpected, so sudden. I still can't believe Ed's really gone. I still wake up in the morning expecting to see him..."  _Not bloody likely._ It was her main joy, waking up to herself, without fear of Ed's fist or his belt, his rage.

Andrea gave her a knowing look.

"Merle have you rehearse that?"

 _Seven hells._ Carol was certain her actions at the funeral were going to haunt her for a hundred years. It certainly wasn't helping her current situation.  _Screw it._

"A little," Carol admitted. "How'd you know?"

"Word of advice, kitten: you're not meant for the stage."

Carol smiled, deciding to throw caution to the wind since clearly, the woman was in the know.

"That might be a problem for me." Carol took a long swallow of her coffee, letting the dark brew warm her belly. "I'll get better with practice."

"I sincerely hope not." Andrea was suddenly solemn, eyeing her with a sad gaze. "It takes something out of you, putting on a act like that. It leaves a hole in your soul."

_Well now. That was unexpected._

"Is that what happened to you?" She could have kicked herself.  _Watch your mouth!_ Andrea's face stayed in that sad expression for another moment before her face lifted, a practiced smile gracing her features again. She ignored Carol's question, deftly changing the topic.

"Any of the boys giving you trouble?"

Carol hesitated, hedging on principal. She was starting to like Andrea but at the same time, rules were rules. She didn't want to cross Merle any more than she already had.

"Not too bad," she finally replied. "Daryl-um,  _both_  Dixons keep things fairly well in hand."

Most of the men in the house were cautiously polite towards her, obviously keeping their distance, although Merle Dixon continued to treat her with a layer of amused sarcasm. The real issue was Jackson Lachtrie, the same oafish layabout who'd treated her so callously at the wake. He'd made her skin crawl with a mess of oily smarm and bad pickup lines. By the second day she'd been ready to scream, as he'd relentlessly followed her around the house. She'd finally approached the younger Dixon after the third day, shaking and angry at the prospect of having to deal with this for the rest of her days.

_'_ _You promised you'd keep them in line.'_

_She'd caught him leaving the house before dawn on quiet feet, the door open, fedora already on his head and his black trench coat over his arm. He looked back at her over his shoulder, his face blank._

_'_ _Come again?'_

_'_ _Your men. You promised to keep them in line.'_

_'_ _We got issues already?'_

_'_ _Only if you count that slimy snake who thinks he'd God's gift to women.' Her anger made her bold, her words sharp, like she'd been at the funeral. He'd turned to face her at that, stepping back inside and shutting the door behind him with a snap._

_'_ _Jackson put his hands on you?' There was ice in his voice and for half a moment she saw something flare in his eyes, making her shiver._

_'_ _Not yet, but...' She trailed off, pulling her robe tight and wrapping her arms around herself. It was just a matter of time before Jackson did get handsie. She knew immediately if that grease ball put one hand on her she'd die. She couldn't look at Daryl, casting her eyes instead on his shiny black shoes._

_'_ _**But** _ _,' Daryl intoned flatly. 'This been goin' on since we got here?' She nodded. 'Hey. Look at me.' She'd raised her eyes, responding instinctively to the tone of quiet authority and instantly hating herself for it. 'M' glad ya told me. Wait here a moment?'_

_She just nodded again, standing stock still as he brushed past her and pounded up the stairs, moving unusually loudly for him. Her eyes went wide at the shout that suddenly carried down the stairs to where she stood by the front door, listening to the muffled thumps that followed before everything went quiet again. She waited through the long minutes of silence, too afraid to turn even look back towards the stairs when he was there again, standing in front of her with his clear blue eyes and the hint of a satisfied smirk on his face._

_'_ _It's taken care of. You lemme know if he says even a word out of order, all right?'_

_She was stunned he'd responded that fast, that Jackson's behavior seemed to bother him as much as it bothered her. This wasn't what she had expected from him at all._

_'_ _Thank you,' she said softly. 'I didn't think you would-' He'd cut her off before she could finish._

_'_ _Whatever else, this is still your home an' I expect them all to treat ya good. You did right, comin to me.' She felt the pressure of his fingers at her elbow, just a fleeting touch before he was gone, out the door like a shadow being chased by the sun and leaving her standing in wonder, her mind full of the complicated, devilishly handsome man who was very clearly not what he seemed._

Jackson Lachtrie had walked around gingerly for days, complaining of aching ribs, but the lewd comments had ceased for the time being. Since then, she'd dealt with Daryl over Merle whenever possible.

"How  _nice_ of them." There was a gleam in Andrea's eye that Carol couldn't place, like something had clicked for the woman, a piece of a bigger pie Carol wasn't privy to.  _Curiouser and curiouser..._

"I'm sorry," she said slowly, "but aren't you here to see Merle?"

"I saw him," Andrea said. "Now he's on the phone, wheeling and dealing like the fat cat he is. I'm just supposed to hang around until he's done, so I thought I'd meet the new landlady."

"Well, you've met me," Carol said. "Did I pass?"

"With flying colors." Andrea raised her cup in salute. Carol smiled, raising her own cup to clink against Andrea's. They both took long drinks of their coffee. Andrea drained hers, clearly enjoying the rich flavor before something caught her ear and she tilted her head, listening to the music that Carol, with all her attention focused on Andrea, had forgotten was playing.

"Billie Holliday," she mused aloud. "You have excellent taste."

"Thank you," Carol replied. "She's one of my favorites."

"That settles it," Andrea said firmly. "Carol Peletier, I've decided to like you."

Carol blushed despite herself, her misgivings and uncertainty about this woman. She couldn't quite figure Andrea out, but she knew that there were layers upon layers here. Andrea was in the same game as the Dixons were, as she was now, but better practiced than Carol herself. She found herself liking Andrea, but for reasons she couldn't explain, Carol didn't quite trust the blonde.  _Play it easy, girl. Careful now._  It didn't matter, because suddenly the hulking figure of Merle Dixon was standing between them, staring down at Carol with dark eyes.

"I thought I told you to make yourself scarce," Merle said menacingly, his voice low and cold.  _Oh no_. Carol froze, her mouth open in horror as her voice failed her. From somewhere behind Merle, Andrea's voice carried over.

"For god's sake, Merle, I asked her for a cup of coffee. You're the one who left me alone. She was just being polite." Merle shifted enough so she could see Andrea, still sitting in her chair with a face full of defiant belligerence. Carol could also see that the fingers clasping her coffee cup where stiff and white knuckled.  _She's scared of him, too._

"Shut yer trap," Merle growled. "I'm gettin' awful tired of you sticking your nose where it don't belong."

" _Merle_." Andrea pushed her chair back, rising slowly to her feet, the empty mug still clenched in her hand. "She's just being a good hostess, keeping me company like I asked her to while I waited for you. Simmer down, now."

Merle inched up on Andrea until she was pressed against the edge of the table, leaning back and keeping herself up by bracing her hands on the tabletop as Merle closed the gap between them until their noses almost touched, his huge arms on either side of Andrea, caging her in. Carol didn't know when she'd gotten to her feet, icy terror running through her veins as she waited with bated breath for Merle to either speak or snap. When he finally spoke, his voice was little more than a grumble but deathly certain.

"One time. This  _one time_ , I'll allow it. Next time, don't chase down my fuckin' landlady to keep your ass company. She ain't your business."

"She isn't a prisoner, either." Andrea's defiance, cloaked in honey smooth dulcet tones, was startling to Carol even as Merle's face turned almost purple with fury. "You can't keep her isolated from the world, Merle. That's not how it works. Even I know that."

Carol couldn't remember how to breathe, watching the two of them face off. The only noise in the room the staccato scratch of needle on vinyl; the record had ended, the disc still spinning endlessly on its tray. The endless scratch scratch ticked like a metronome, louder and louder with each passing moment until Carol thought she would scream, desperate for someone to break the silence. Minutes bled together as she waited out the now silent argument happening in front of her, It was Merle again who finally broke, his voice like a low rumble of thunder.

"Everything's set for tomorrow. Just make sure ya cover your end. Now take your shit and get out." He thrust a thick manila envelope at Andrea and shoved himself off the table, pushing it a full two inches in his wake as he stormed out of the room. Carol's legs gave out and she collapsed to the floor, her breath coming in heaving gasps, listening to the echo of Andrea's own pants as they both tried to collect themselves.

"Are you all right?" Carol's voice wasn't more than a whisper, but to her it seemed to boom loudly in the room.

"I'm fine." Andrea's voice was soft and soothing, not a tremor to bely the hint of fear still lurking in the blonde's eyes. Carol knew that fear, had lived with it for so long it was second nature to her now. It was a hundred times worse watching it happen to someone else, to see it happening but have no control over how it played out had left her breathless. Seeing that fear on the other woman's face banished any misgivings she still held for Andrea, making the choice to be on Andrea's side.  _She did just stick her neck out for me._ "Come here, honey." Andrea was helping her into a chair, refilling her coffee mug. _I should be doing this for_ _ **her**_.

"You get used to it," Andrea said suddenly. "After a while… it gets easier… with Merle. You learn…"

"I wish I didn't have to," Carol whispered. The kitchen lights were too bright, nearly blinding her as the dull thump of a headache took up residence deep in her skull.  _Christ Almighty, I thought he was going to kill her right here in my kitchen._

"I know." She loathed the look of sympathy on Andrea's face.

"I'm sorry you had to."

Andrea was quiet for several long minutes before moving to the side table, gently resetting the needle on the record. Once again, the soft streams of Billie Holliday filled the room, floating over them like a worn, comfortable blanket.

"I was right," Andrea said finally. "I do like you."

_To hell with it._

"Right back atchya." Carol was amazed to realize she was smiling; what was moreso, Andrea was smiling back.

"I can see why he likes you."

"Who?"  _Surely she can't mean that psychopath…_ Carol bit down on the remnants of terror the thought of Merle churned up inside her and tried to focus on Andrea, who was still talking.

"You should come to the club," Andrea was saying, moving now with brisk determination and overly forced cheerfulness as she straightened the chairs and grabbed her empty cup to take to the sink. Carol was confused, not quite following Andrea's train of thought. _She sure is one smooth customer._

"Club? What club?" Carol asked. Andrea nearly shouted with laughter, leaving Carol feeling somewhat foolish.

"Oh  _honey_ ," Andrea purred. "The Five O'Clock Club, of course. You'll love it."

Of course. The Five O'Clock Club was the premiere hot spot in Atlanta; even Carol knew that. She also knew that it was Greene's territory, having overheard enough from the boys to know that's where the majority of them spent their free nights enjoying the "perks" of being... them.

"I've never been," Carol said softly. "I haven't… been  _out_... in a long time. Do you go there often?"  _How did we get from Merle Dixon to this?_

"Every night. Oh, you should come tomorrow," Andrea declared suddenly. Carol realized Andrea was completely and totally insane.

"Andrea, I can't go there. I'll never get in."

"I'll make sure your name is on the list." Andrea seemed determined, giving her a bright, slightly devious smile.

"No… that would upset  _him_  to know end." Carol jerked her chin towards the ceiling, the second floor, to indicate just which _him_  she was talking about. She wondered why Andrea was bringing this up now, of all times.  _What exactly is going on here?_

"Exactly," Andrea purred. She was positively aglow with delight at the thought of planting a thorn in Merle Dixon's side. Carol felt a hot notch of anxiety grab her by her stomach.  _I'm the thorn._  She was sick already of being a pawn in someone else's game… but at the same time, the thought of being out, the thrill of people and live music, of being somewhere else, somewhere new, was tantalizing. She had to admit that the idea of annoying Merle was tempting, just because she could.  _Damn him for making her feel so afraid in her own home._

_He could have killed Andrea and you in one blow tonight._

The idea was breathtakingly dangerous, but it wouldn't leave her alone. Carol tried to shuffle her way out of it.

"I… I don't have a thing to wear that would fit in with a place like that."

"You leave that to me," Andrea said firmly. "Trust me. Trust my face."

"That's asking a lot."

"I know," Andrea said. That sad look was back, just a second and it was gone, but Carol knew she'd seen it again. It was enough to break through the last of her defenses, but she gave it one last, feeble try.

"I don't belong there." The admission was soft, quiet as cat's paws on carpet, but she knew Andrea had heard her.

"Yes, you do." The blonde was in front of Carol, tilting her chin up so she could meet Andrea's gaze head on. There was mischief there, yes, and sympathy and a hint of simmering anger, but also kindness and understanding. "I'll send over the duds and the cab. You just get yourself to the club by eight o'clock."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because you're one of us now."

"I'm not one of you." Carol was up straight, suddenly fierce.  _How dare she?_  Andrea had approval dancing in her eyes, a smirk twisting her ruby red lips.

"We'll see."

And like that, she was gone, leaving Carol alone to catch her breath.


	9. Dance of the Firecrackers

_**A/N:** I think this is the chapter most of you have been waiting for, so I'm gonna shut up and let you get to it!_

* * *

**Chapter Nine: Dance of The Firecrackers**

Not for the first time, Carol wondered how she managed to get herself into these messes.

The parcel had been delivered that morning, even before the milkman had come with Carol's daily order of milk, eggs and cream. The deliverer had been polite and almost too cheerful for that early, introducing himself with a cheeky grin as Theodore Douglas and giving Andrea's name as he passed her the pile of elegantly wrapped boxes, letting Carol know he would also be the one picking her up that night at eight to take her to The Five O'Clock Club at Andrea's request. The day had stuttered by in a blur, her thoughts tied up with the tangled web she'd somehow found herself in. Now it was six, the house was empty and she had two hours before this Theodore was supposed to return. She knew she should be getting ready, but instead she was standing in her robe, fresh from her bath and letting her hair drip water over her shoulders as she stared, slack jawed, at the dress Andrea had sent.

It was  _gorgeous_ , a thousand times nicer than anything she'd ever owned, all silk and taffeta in a dark, sultry midnight blue with a dash of rhinestone sparkle at the hip of the sarong-style drape of the skirt. The bodice was a delicate halter with a sweetheart neckline, the boned structure designed to highlight every curve of her body and show off lots of skin - skin Carol wasn't sure she'd ever shown to anyone but her deceased husband. Skin she was now expected to flaunt in public in front of the most dangerous men she'd ever met and one seriously twisted blonde? Andrea was completely  _insane_.

She was also incredibly thorough. The parcels had also included a beautiful pair of black peep toe heels that shimmered with crystals, a delicate silver silk clutch, silk elbow length evening gloves dyed to match her dress, finely crafted crystal earrings and a soft, white fur wrap. It was all top of the line couture the likes of which she'd only seen in pictures of movie stars. She wasn't even sure Lori Greene had anything as nice in her well stocked closets.

It wasn't just the dress that had her on edge. The knowledge that Merle Dixon was going to be furious when she showed up nearly had her knees knocking together. She'd barely slept last night, the image of Merle's form towering over Andrea seared into her brain, the absolute certainty that he could have have killed them both leaving her mouth sour. Carol knew it had been obvious something was wrong with her all day. More than once she'd glanced up from her work to see the silent figure of Daryl Dixon watching her. He  _knew_  something was going on, but as always, he said nothing. It was an unspoken agreement between them that she would go to him if she felt she needed intervention, like she had with Jackson; otherwise, she was expected to handle things.

Incredibly, her first instinct  _had_ been to tell Daryl what happened with Merle, something she'd warred with all day. She trusted Daryl to run interference with the lesser members of the gang, but Merle… Merle was his brother. He was also higher on the totem pole, Carol knew this instinctively, and any complaint she had would do her no good. There was something about Daryl that settled her, make her skin warm and tingle every time she felt his eyes on her. She knew what he was, knew there was untold blood on his hands, that his long absences from the house were proof of black work afoot, and yet… Carol almost felt like she could trust Daryl.

She just wasn't sure if she  _should_.

Carol glanced at the clock and was shocked to see fifteen minutes has passed while she'd stared at the couture and let her mind drift. She needed to make her choice and fast.

_Oh God, I'm really going to regret this._

* * *

 

Daryl lounged against the long, polished red oak bar and surveyed the Friday night crowd.  _Where the hell is T?_ It was almost eight-thirty and the party was on; people everywhere, eating, drinking, talking, dancing or just listening to the thump and wail of the band in full swing. Michonne was at the microphone, a sparkling, sleek vision of glitz and glamor with the white tuxes of the band behind her glowing in the bright stage lights. He was only half listening to the constant stream of jibber jabber coming from Jackson and Randall, focusing the rest of his attention on the ebb and flow of the crowd. He spotted the richly dressed figure of Lori Greene, holding court at a booth near the stage with several of the "hens" - the debutantes and Junior League members that made up her circle of high class society ladies. He picked out Andrea, scorching as ever in a tight red dress, in the center of a sea of dark suits, at least ten men working to get a smile or a laugh from the curvacious blonde.

He could just make out the figure of Thom Crowley, standing guard by an unassuming door tucked into the far corner of the room; the door lead to the upstairs offices where the old man occasionally held private meetings. It was the meeting happening right now that had Daryl's teeth on edge. Mr. Blue was  _here_ , which had all of them jittering in their seats. He was upstairs with Greene and Merle, a regular rainbow of unholy terror happening above this hall where trumpets sang and people danced the night away, unaware as ever of the machine at work to control their lives above their heads. He'd yet to catch a glimpse of the mysterious financier and he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to.

Daryl was exhausted, the result of a long week of preparations for Mr. Blue on top of his normal routine and sleep riddled with dreams of sweet blue eyes. He kept telling himself firmly it was only his proximity to the widow that had him this way, if he kept his distance it would stop. It hadn't worked yet.

There was still no sign of T, which worried Daryl.  _Old man is gonna spit nails if T turns up late tonight of all nights._

"What can I get you tonight?"

Daryl turned and nodded his head at Glenn Rhee, looking crisp and perfectly pressed despite the flurry of activity.

"Scotch 'n soda," Daryl replied. He wasn't normally a highball kind of guy but tonight was a night he couldn't afford to get drunk. To his credit, the bartender didn't respond to the unusual order, simply nodded and got to work. Daryl leaned further onto the bar, angling himself towards Rhee. "How's the new boss working out?"

"Jenner? Not too shabby," Glenn answered, tilting the glass to allow the foam from the soda to settle. "It's only his first day. Shame it had to be on a busy day like today, but nothing like a trial by fire to see what a person is made of." A quick stir and the large tumbler was sliding across the red oak bar to Daryl's hand

Daryl smirked.  _Smart kid._  "Keep me posted, yeah?" Rhee was nosey as fuck, but Daryl figured it worked out to his advantage to keep the kid on his side.

"Always, sir."

A tap on Daryl's shoulder had him turning. Jackson nodded his head to the far corner, rolling his eyes before turning back to continue his mindless chatter with Randall. Daryl heaved a sigh of relief as he spotted Theodore Douglas in the shadows by the stage and held up a finger, signaling the driver to wait a minute.

"Glenn," Daryl called. "Grab me a Blue Ribbon, will ya?" The beer bottle appeared in a manner of seconds.  _Might be time to give the kid a raise_. Daryl snatched up both drinks before weaving his way through the crowd. The clear, brassy sound of the horn section going to town made speaking almost impossible by the time Daryl made it to T, passing the dark man the beer without a word and nudging them both back into the green room behind the stage. The noise was muted here, with a thick wall between them and the hall itself. The room was wide, couches and armchairs scattered everywhere. A pile of black instrument cases teetered precariously next to the men's dressing room door. A smaller door along the far wall led up the same staircase that Crowley was guarding from the hall. A thick cloud of musk, shoe polish and perfume pervaded the room and tickled Daryl's nose.

"Cuttin' it a little close, ain't ya?" Daryl asked. The old man's instructions were for the car to be ready by eight-thirty; by his watch T had made it with seconds to spare.

"Cool your jets. I'm here, ain't I? Got caught up running another errand," T smirked. Daryl arched an eyebrow as the driver swigged half his beer in one go. Daryl knew he wasn't privy to every detail of the operation, but he was usually aware of what the drivers were doing. As far as he knew, T only had one assignment tonight.  _Must have been somethin' last minute from Merle._  Before he could ask, the second door cracked open and Thom Crowley poked his head in.

"Thank fuck," he muttered. "They're ready for you."

"A chauffeur's work is never done." T slapped Daryl on the shoulder and pushed by Crowley to get out the door, shoving the still half full beer into the big man's paw on his way out. Crowley grimaced, dropping the bottle into a nearby trash bin.

"Come on, I need a drink."

They made their way back to the bar amid the bass and thump of the band mingling with the cheers and chatter of the crowd. The joint was definitely full, every table occupied with people desperate to see and be seen, to have a drink and a smoke, maybe a dance and forget about their troubles for an hour or two. Daryl knew if he chanced a look outside he'd see a line of folks winding 'round the block waiting for a chance to enter Atlanta's most exclusive club.  _Some life._

Merle had arrived by the time they found Jackson and Randall again, accompanied by a leggy brunette in a slinky dress of green satin and wearing about a pound of makeup on her face in what was surely an attempt to be sophisticated beyond her years, but to Daryl it just served to make her look garish.

"Fellas," Merle drawled as they approached, "take a minute to say hello to Maggie here."

"Hi, there." Maggie greeted them with a flutter of her lashes and a well-practiced smile. Daryl held back a snort; she was clearly used to boys falling at her feet.  _Ain't no boys here tonight, duckling._

"Evening," Crowley replied stiffly. Daryl just nodded, wondering what the hell the girl was doing with Merle.

"Randall," Merle ordered. The young button man leapt to his feet, startled at the rare occurrence of being addressed directly by Merle and knocking over his drink in the process. Rhee was on the scene in seconds, silently mopping up the spill. "Why don'tcha show the lady around for a minute."

"Me?" Randall's mouth gaped open like a fish on a hook, casting an anxious look at Jackson while Maggie rolled her eyes, sipping at her martini. Daryl bit the inside of his cheek trying not to laugh; he could tell Crowley was in a similar state.  _Fucking moron._  Randall was nothing more than a waste of space, a two-bit wannabe who did nothing but follow Jackson Lachtrie around like he was a god and jumped at every shadow.

"Yeah, you," Merle bit out impatiently. "Step to it." He nearly shoved Randall into Maggie to get them out of the way; with a glare Maggie wrapped her arm around Randall's and led him to the dance floor. Daryl spotted Glenn Rhee from the corner of his eye watching the girl leave with a dreamy expression on his face.

"So what's the scoop on the floozy?" Jackson asked nonchalantly. "She's a nice piece." Daryl sighed; Jackson had never met a dame he didn't think was a nice piece. He'd fuck The Banshee herself if he thought she'd open her legs for him, just to say he did it.

"She's Blue's daughter," Merle replied tersely. He grinned at the stunned silence that followed his statement, knowing he'd shocked all of them. "She apparently travels with her pop, though she doesn't have the first inkling of what he actually does. Treat her nice, show her a good time and for  _fuck's sake_ , Jackson, don't dip your wick in that candle."

"Yes, boss," Jackson laughed. He turned his back to the Dixons and sauntered off towards the dance floor.

"Cocky little motherfucker," Merle grumbled. "'Bout time I showed him the business end of my fist."

"You won't hear me arguing," Daryl said. Merle was tense, his jaw clenched and eyes darker than normal thanks to the sunken shadows under his eyes. He hadn't been around the house much lately, Greene's list keeping him hopping the past week as they all prepared for the arrival of the mysterious money man. He also knew the weight on Merle was twice what his own was, but he usually thrived on that kind of pressure. This was different for Merle. "What's the score with you, anyhow?"

"Don't fuckin' worry about it," he growled. "Just keep an eye on the joint, eh? I gotta go to the can."

Daryl watched his brother stomp off and sighed, rapping his knuckles twice on the bar and ordering another drink. He swirled the scotch around in his glass, side-eyeing Crowley, who was standing a silent sentinel at his side.  _Hell of a night already and it ain't even nine o'clock yet._  Randall was back, obnoxiously crunching a mouthful of pretzels.

"Where's the dame?"

"Over with the Banshee," Randall garbled around his food like a cow chewing cud, spraying Daryl with crumbs. Daryl snarled, brushing the bits of bread and salt off his black jacket impatiently. "Making good with the soo-ciety ladies."

"That'll be an interesting conversation," Crowley laughed.

"Can this night get any more cracked?" Daryl asked quietly. Crowley didn't answer, just lit a smoke stick and leaned back on the bar. Randall was chomping on more pretzels, pulling them out from his pockets like a kid at the movies.  _What a dope._ They listened as the band wrapped up their number and Michonne purred into the mic that they were going to take a short break. The stage lights dropped as Michonne and the boys made their exit, making the rest of the hall seem brighter. In that one moment, that moment where the whole crowd held its breath as everyone adjusted to the drop in volume, just a second where Daryl swore you could hear a pin drop, he saw her.

She was a vision of creamy skin wrapped in inky midnight blue with just the right amount of sparkle to set it off, gorgeous gams and a body of sweet curves his fingers instantly itched to touch. It had been a long time since he'd had a woman and the craving for her slammed into him like a freight train, making his breath catch even though he hadn't even seen her face yet.

"Holy hell," Crowley muttered next to him. "I think you just jinxed yourself, Daryl."

The vision turned, just enough that Daryl could see what Crowley had already spotted and he grimaced, shock dropping into his stomach like a bucket of ice water. His vision was the  _widow_ , Carol Peletier, who was standing just inside the door with a slightly nervous, sweetly innocent expression on her face that made Daryl's insides squirm.  _What in the hell…?_

"What the fuck is she  _doin_ ' here?" Daryl hissed.

"Maybe she's just out for a night on the town," Crowley said.

" _Carol Peletier_? A night on the town? Don't be such a jackass."

"Listen," Crowley said soothingly. "You know the old lady took a liking to her after Eddy P's wake. Looking at those spiffy duds of hers. She's gotta be here as The Banshee's charity case."

That actually made sense to Daryl. He slowed his breathing, counting to four with each inhale and exhale as he desperately tried not to look at the sweet curves being flaunted in front of him.  _The fuck is wrong with you?_ Thankful she hadn't spotted him ogling her, he was almost calm again when her face broke into a smile as she greeted the blonde who'd run up to welcome her.

"Oh,  _fuck,_ " Daryl said.

" _Oh_ , fuck," Crowley and Randall echoed.

 _She's here with_   _ **Andrea**_ _? How the fuck does she even know… shit and shinola. I sent her to the fucking house._  Clearly, the women had met and mingled long enough to get friendly. How the hell Andrea had wrangled the widow into coming to the club, he had  _no_ idea.

"Of all the nights," Crowley muttered.

"Tell me about it." The whole thing was a goddamn powder keg about to explode. Daryl watched as the women made their way back to the passel of men who'd been holding Andrea's attention all night and wondered if  _he_ was going to be the one who popped first.

"Sweet baby Jesus."  _Goddamnit._  Jackson was back, sidling in between Daryl and Crowley with a wolfish grin. "That's what she'd been hiding under those housedresses? Reminds me of a kid eating ice cream for the first time."

Daryl whirled before he could think, grabbing Jackson's collar and slamming him against the bar so hard he could hear the rattle of glass all up and down its length, heedless of the gasps erupting around them as he jammed his fist against the weasel's throat. Arms were pulling him back before he could speak, the stocky figure of Crowley pushing himself between them as Randall came speeding up to hold Jackson back.

"Simmer down now, firecracker," Merle growled in his ear. "Not  _here_."

Daryl wrenched himself free, running a hand through his sandy hair and turning away from the annoyance of Jackson with an angry huff.  _The fuck is wrong with you?_  Merle still had a hand on his back, ordering the others out over his shoulder as he led Daryl away from the bar and into the shadows.

"The fuck got your goat, baby brother?" Merle was furious, a controlled fury. Daryl knew it was only because they were in public he wasn't getting a sock in his kisser right now. "You know better than to fly off like that here." Daryl didn't say anything, just glared at the men who surrounded Andrea and her unexpected friend. Merle followed his gaze, picking up the source of the ruckus and narrowed his eyes.

"You've got to be kidding me," Merle said flatly. "I'm gonna  _kill_  Andrea."

"You knew?" Daryl asked, surprised.

"Caught them gossiping in the kitchen like a couple of wet hens last night," Merle growled. "Blondie gets up in my face about how the widow was just bein' nice and she ain't a 'prisoner' and shit."

Daryl side-eyed his brother, catching the dark glare in his eyes. The thing about working for Hershel Greene was, none of them were good men. They all had blood on their hands, every last one of them. Merle, though… Daryl had limits - limits that, for the most part, Greene had respected. Merle didn't.

"Merle, what did you do?" Daryl asked carefully.

"Ain't nothin' compared to what I'm  _gonna_  do," Merle snarled. "Come with me."

He was off into the crowd like a flash and Daryl struggled to keep up, jostling people aside as politely as possible as they made their way to Andrea's crowd, huddled around a table close to the stage. Andrea saw them first, a devilish grin twisting her lips as she took in Merle's face.

"Good evening, gents," she said smoothly. Merle didn't even blink at her, pushing his way through the crowd and turning his back at her to glare at the men.

"Scram," he ordered. In a flash, the dozen or so men had vanished, scattering to the far corners of the club to seek out less dangerous game, leaving the Dixons with Andrea and Widow Peletier.

"That was rude," Andrea sniffed. "Something wrong, Merle?" Her eyes flashed as she jutted her chin out at the older Dixon.  _She's enjoying this._  To her credit, the widow was keeping her cool, watching the exchange with a measured look on her face. The lingering fear that had been so prominent for weeks was gone, replaced by a spark reminiscent of the woman who had been so brazen at the wake. Daryl realized he  _liked_  it.

The stage lights kicked back on, blinding them all for a moment as the band and Michonne made their entrance to thunderous applause again.

"Daryl," Merle said firmly, "take the lovely widow for a spin around the dance floor while I talk to Andrea here."  _Holy hell._ The woman in question opened her mouth to protest.

"I don't-"

"It's ok," Andrea cut in. "Go ahead." She gave an encouraging nudge, pushing the woman at Daryl as he sighed, taking her cool hand in his and leading her out to the center of the floor.

The band hadn't started yet, still getting settled into their positions, so for a long moment they were the only ones out on the dance floor. Their joined hands dangled limply between them as they waited for the music to start. Daryl could see Michonne, who was clearly watching them with interest. He gave her his best squint, silently telling her to  _get a move on, already_. She grinned and went to whisper at the piano player, who immediately struck up a familiar riff as Michonne sauntered back to her mic. Daryl pulled the widow close, placing his other hand on her waist, and started moving along to the slow, sultry rhythm.

_Sometimes I wonder why I spend_

_The lonely nights dreaming of a song_

She was stiff in his arms, her movements unsure. She wasn't looking at him, casting her eyes down at their feet. It gave him a chance to admire her dainty features up close; the tendrils of auburn waves that framed her face, her long lashes dark against her pale cheek, the gentle curve of her jaw and sweet upturned tip of her nose, the soft pink of her lips that he just  _knew_  would feel like velvet if he touched them.

_The melody haunts my reverie_

"See anything interestin' down there?" Daryl asked quietly. Her eyes jerked up and locked with his as a blush tinted her cheeks. She was absolutely breathtaking.

"I'm not…" she started slowly, her voice low and soft. She gave a little laugh that shook its way down her body. Daryl found himself tightening his arm around her, sliding his hand across the smooth fabric to rest at the small of her back. "I can't remember the last time I danced."

"Me either," he admitted. "I won't tell anyone if you step on my feet."

_And I am once again with you_

"Well then, I won't tell anyone  _when_  you step on mine." She gave him a saucy grin that he had to fight not to return as he felt her body finally relax in his arms. ' _Atta girl._ They moved together, letting the piano and Michonne's silky smooth voice weave its spell around them. Daryl chanced a quick glance around and his belly started to churn as he realized he couldn't see either Merle or Andrea anymore. He couldn't take it; he had to know what happened. He leaned into her a bit, not wanting to risk being overheard by the other dancers that now littered the floor.

"What happened last night with Merle?"

Dear god, but her eyes were beautiful, the same blue of a bluebird's wing. He could see the wheels turning as she tilted her head just so. He wondered what she thought of him, what she would tell him.

"Don't worry about it," she finally said.

"Listen, Mrs-"

"Oh,  _God_ ," she groaned, squeezing her eyes shut and dropping her head with a grimace. His heart clenched in his chest the second he lost sight of those gorgeous blues.  _Look at me. Look at me!_ "Can you not… I don't want to spend the rest of my life as Mrs. Peletier or Widow Peletier. I know that's not appropriate, but I don't care. If you insist that I'm supposed to just call you Daryl…" The sound of his name from her lips made his breath catch in his throat.  _What the hell is wrong with me?_  "... Can I just be… Carol?"

_Though I dream in vain_

_In my heart it will remain_

The one thing he'd tried not to do. He'd pushed himself to think of her as Mrs. Peletier or, more simply, the widow, firm in his belief that keeping that distance between them would make his weird fascination with her cease and his dreams would settle down. Now, confronted with the very thing he'd been trying to avoid, he found himself helpless to refuse her.

"Okay, Carol," he said.  _Good Lord_ but her name on his tongue was sweet, rolling through him like warm honey. "What happened with Merle?"

"Don't worry about it," Carol said again, just a shade more determined this time.

"Are you-"

"I'm sure," she cut in again. "Let it go, Daryl. I'm all right."

He could see it in her, her resolution to stop being afraid, to grab whatever bits of life she could with the hand she'd been dealt and knew that whatever had happened last night, it had pushed her over this edge. There'd be no stopping her now. Andrea may have had her own reasons for bringing Carol here, but she was determined to twist it to her own purposes now.

"Good girl," Daryl murmured. He couldn't pull his eyes from hers anymore and he let it go, content to drown in those depths and never surface. She looked as lost as he felt, her pupils blown wide as her hand slid its way up his shoulder. He could feel the warmth of her burning his skin through the silk of her glove and all his layers. He realized his thumb was gently caressing the knuckles of her hand, held close against his chest now, but he couldn't stop himself.

They were barely moving now, certainly weren't dancing anymore, just rocking together on the balls of their feet and Daryl wondered just when he'd pulled her so flush against him he could feel every curve of her beneath her dress. He had the sudden urge to know what she'd feel like under his hands, if her skin was as smooth as it looked in all the places he couldn't see. He could feel her breath on his face as she gazed up at him with those eyes of hers he'd been dreaming about for weeks. All it would take is a small nudge of his head, just a little closer, and he'd be able to taste her mouth for himself. Daryl licked his lips, angling his head down and breathing her in as her eyes started to close…

He was knocked sideways just enough to jolt him back to reality, the schmoe in his off-the-rack suit apologizing with a pale, sweat drenched face before turning back to his partner. The thump of the drum was heavy and insistent; Daryl had no idea when the hell the music had even changed to the upbeat swing number blasting through the hall. Christ, he'd been just  _standing_  in the middle of the dance floor with Carol in his arms, about to kiss her, with half of Atlanta watching them. He was  _still_ holding her, his arm loose around her as he clasped her hand to his chest while people danced enthusiastically around them. Carol's eyes were blown wide, her face pale under the light layer of makeup.

"I, uh… thank you... for the dance," she stammered before pulling herself from his arms and hurrying off the floor, up the steps towards the ladies powder room. Daryl felt suddenly cold watching her run from him. He actually took a step forward, intent on going after her before a familiar blonde blocked his path and he came to his senses. The look on Andrea's face was nothing short of stupefied; she'd obviously caught the end of whatever the hell had just happened on the dance floor. Daryl wasn't even sure how to describe it himself. He felt punch drunk, his head spinning with thoughts of Carol and stardust and  _oh shit Merle_.

"Where's Merle?" he spat at Andrea, storming up to her in a panic.

"He's outside with the boys waiting for Theodore to come back," Andrea replied. "Little girl Blue got herself drunk as a skunk already, so they're taking her home to daddy before she makes a scene."  _Thank Christ_  Daryl didn't even want to know what would have happened if Merle had caught a glimpse of him and Carol. He shook his head, trying to focus his attention back to Andrea.

"Ya all right?" Daryl asked the blonde. She just smiled at him, cool and composed as she ever was.

"Big Brother isn't anything I can't handle," Andrea replied. "So are we going to talk about what I saw or-"

"NO!" Daryl almost shouted.  _Calm down._  "It wasn't anything. I don't… " He desperately wanted to ask Andrea to go check on Carol. He wanted to get out of here. He wanted a drink. He could tell everything was plain as day on his face despite his best effort because Andrea looked like she was about to die trying not to laugh.  _I surrender._  "God, Andrea, don't make me beg."

"All right, all right, I'm going," Andrea said. "But rest assured, we are going to  _discuss_  this later, Mr. Dixon!"

"There ain't nothin' to discuss," Daryl insisted. "It was just a dance."

"Keep telling yourself that," Andrea called over her shoulder as she left him at the edge of the dance floor. Daryl groaned and buried his face in his hands. The room was too hot and he snapped, bolting through the crowd, through the empty green room and out the back exit before anyone could stop him. He leaned against the rough brick wall, his chest heaving with each gasping breath.

_I am so fucked._

* * *

 

Carol slammed the door to the powder room behind her, ignoring the startled looks from the few other women scattered about as she sank down on a plush blue velvet settee. Her skin felt flushed, stretched too tight over her bones and she let her head drop, avoiding everyone as she fought to steady her breath.  _What. Just. Happened?_

She'd been nervous as hell coming to the club, her belly full of butterflies. She'd managed to down half a martini with Andrea before the Dixons had appeared from nowhere, Merle full of his typical bullish anger, Daryl quiet and watchful as always. Before she knew it, she'd been dancing with Daryl Dixon, somewhere in there she'd asked him to call her Carol and then… Lord, she didn't even know how to explain what had happened, the crackle of electricity between them, the feel of his hands on her body through the thin material of her gown, the deep ocean blue of his eyes drowning her. Just thinking about it sent a gush of feeling swimming through her that made her clench her thighs together and her breasts ache beneath the constricting boned top. She couldn't remember the last time she'd desired a man so much and she half swore he'd wanted her right back. It wasn't possible, was it?  _God, no, this was such a bad idea._

"Well,  _that_  was fun."

Andrea was suddenly there, as if she'd materialized from thin air, settling down next to Carol with a smile.

"I don't want to talk about it," Carol moaned. Not here, not in this place where the walls have ears. Maybe not ever. She wasn't sure, too dizzy from the drink and the smell of smoke and woodsy scent of Daryl's cologne that lingered in her nose.

"Right." Andrea was giving her a measured look. Carol squirmed under the scrutiny. "You, my friend, need another drink."

"Actually, I think I've had enough excitement for one night." Carol precariously pushed up to her feet, her legs unsteady both from the heels and the damp heat pooled in between.

"Well, you certainly made quite the impression, little firecracker," Andrea purred. "I've never seen him like that."

"Really?" Carol asked before she could catch herself, groaning at Andrea's triumphant look.

_I am so fucked._

* * *

**_A/N 2:_ ** _Carol’s Dress: http://www.poshgirlvintage.com/1940s-classic-halter-style-party-dress-p-1581.html_

__The song Carol & Daryl dance to is, of course, 'Stardust' by Hoagy Carmichael. In my head, it's the version sung by the divine Ella Fitzgerald. _ _


	10. Precarious Parallels

_**A/N:**_   _Here we go again! Thanks as always to imorca for her amazing beta skills. Also, supreme thanks to everyone who has read & reviewed this crazy obsession of mine. You rock._

* * *

**Chapter 10: Precarious Parallels**

Daryl had no idea how long he'd wandered the streets, letting the buzz of Atlanta's night life wash past him without notice, every thought of his back at the club… at the dance… with  _her_.

_The fuck is wrong with you?_

Daryl prided himself on control. It was a lesson he'd learned early on, back in the days when he was still making his bones. Focus, attention to detail, keeping your head;  _that_ was how you got the job done. He'd applied that lesson to every aspect of his life. He enjoyed the drink but always kept himself in check, careful to never lose his wits. It was the same all over, from the money he gambled to the broads he fucked. Control.

In return, he was rewarded beyond measure. Power, money, beautiful cars, fine clothes, a position of status in Atlantian society. With a snap of his fingers the finest dishes of food were placed before him and the best liquor east of the Mississippi to fill his glass; with a wave of his hand, he could have the warm, willing body of a gorgeous woman to decorate his arm. Nobody cared that he came from a shanty town in the kudzu riddled jungles further south, that he'd grown up poor and starving, as filthy a redneck as they came. He'd moved on, grown past his childhood to a measure of life that Lee Dixon, for all his drunken bluster, could never have envisioned for his second son.

He just had to pretend it didn't bother him that the overwhelming show of respect wasn't tinged with a healthy dose of fear that tugged at his insides.

Daryl wasn't foolish. He knew the cost of living this life and for years had paid it gladly. Old man Greene could be a pain in the ass, but he was fair with his men. The rewards came based on the quality of the work provided, on the loyalty of the man, and for seven years he'd reaped the benefits of being one of the most loyal, the most careful. Only Merle surpassed him.

Now here he was, walking through the hustle of a Friday night in downtown Atlanta questioning his own sanity. It was  _ridiculous_. Who was Carol Peletier anyway, but just another pawn in Greene's chess game? A nobody, just a dame with a sad tale and a pretty face, like so many.

He wasn't going to let one dance with one woman change anything for him.

* * *

Shane sighed, pushing down the urge for a finger of hooch from the bottle hidden in his top desk drawer and focused his attention on Dale, sharp and crisp in his lieutenant's uniform, standing in front of the room. Besides the two of them, there were five others, all plainclothes, scattered around Shane's office.

Leon Bassett, Shane's old partner, was sitting at what had been his desk, still covered in an inch's worth of thick grey dust, and looking for all the world like a bug had crawled up his butt.  _Same as he ever did._  Shane didn't want him for this and had made his feelings perfectly clear to Dale, who had been just as firm in his answer. There were, after all, only a handful they could trust.

Otis Lambert sat in one of the chairs in front of Shane's desk. He had the weary, care worn look of a beat cop past his prime, which in essence is exactly what he was. Shane remembered training under Lambert when he'd first started. The man was good but more importantly, he was good with the people. Five minutes and people found themselves telling the man their life stories. He could get anyone to talk without having to raise his fist, which Shane figured they were gonna need.

Oscar Campbell had the other seat by Shane's desk. The man was huge, all sinewy muscles that covered his huge frame. Shane was sure the man could crush him with only one arm.

The story mill said he'd been a boxer, even back in his Army days. He insisted on being addressed by his first name and was rumored to keep a ladies handkerchief in his pocket, a token from some dame he'd loved and lost. He was newer to the force and had proved to be of a quieter persuasion, but he had a soldier's mindset, honed from his time in the Philippines fighting the Japs.

Shawn Black leaned against the wall, a jumble of jittering nerves and twitchy fingers that he clenched together in an effort to keep still as his eager eyes shone from his ruddy face. The kid was new, fresh out of the academy, but a hell of a shot and was eager to prove himself. Dale was hoping by bringing him in now, they'd get him firm on their side before Greene could try to sink his hooks in.

Tony Daniels rounded out the group, hunched over by the door smoking his third cigarette of the hour. Shane didn't trust Daniels as far as he figured the lean stick could physically pick him up and throw him. For one, the guy was a damn Yankee, the product of a Georgian dish who'd up and married some two bit salesman from the North and run off to New Jersey with him some thirty years back. When that had flamed out, as those things do, she'd brought the kid home to be raised up right. Shane figured it was too late, what with Tony being ten years old by then and set in his ways. He still had traces of his Jersey accent, something that set Shane to grit his teeth every time Daniels spoke.  _Like nails on a blackboard._

This mismatched set, then, was Dale's motley crew of gang fighters. There were better men on the force, better shots, sharper tools, but trust ran thin. There were too many men who were dirty, men who should have been their brothers in arms but instead made deals with the devil under the table.

_Hell of a way to spend a Friday night._

"So, you all understand why you're here," Dale said in his best officer's voice. "For years, this city has been dominated by a bloodthirsty tyrant, a sheep in wolf's clothing. Cops are dirty and people run scared… It's high time it stopped. We're the ones who are gonna put an end to it."

Dale was prone to theatrics, but Shane had to admit, the man was good.

"You're talking about a hard sell here, boss." Lambert's voice was slow as molasses.

"I know," Dale replied. "It's a long, hard road in front of us."

"Road, psssh," Oscar said. "It seems to me like there isn't a road at all. Has anybody ever gone up against the mob and won?"

"Why ain't the Feebs getting involved in this?" Bassett asked. Shane arched an eyebrow as he and Dale glanced at each other. It was a fair question, one that he'd asked himself. The answer didn't give anybody much hope.

"Because our illustrious governor does not want this to go nationwide," Dale explained simply. Several snorts of laughter, thick with derision erupted around the room. Their "illustrious governor", as Dale had called him, had made all the hot sheets for getting caught with his pants down in a one star burlesque joint. It was a source of both amusement and shame for everybody in the state. There was nothing like seeing your political leader  _in flagrante delicto_  with a dime-store hooker to encourage a bout of damage control.

_The governor's banging whores and our mayor is in bed with old man Greene. Some life._

Black raised his hand and Shane resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Shit, kid, lemme tell you somethin'," Shane laughed. "This ain't the academy anymore. You got somethin' to say, just speak."

"Right… It's just… everybody  _knows_  this is Hershel Greene's town. It's just that nobody can prove it."

"That, right there, is our primary mission," Dale said. " _We're gonna prove it."_

"How?" Black asked.

"By playing Greene's game right back at him." Daniels' voice was the thick, hoarse rasp of a heavy smoker.

"Within reason." Dale was quick to jump on that. "The law is still the law-"

"The  _law_  hasn't done diddly for us in the past," Daniels said sharply. "First report that gets filed will go right into his hands and you know it."

"Which is why we aren't going to be filing reports."

 _Well now._ This was new, something Dale hadn't shared with him before. Dale was a stickler for protocol, for order and procedure with all of his unshakeable faith in the system. He definitely had the attention of the room now.

"No uniforms, no badges unless it's absolutely necessary." Dale was spinning his hat in his hands, an easy tell that the man was nervous about this part of the plan.  _This cockamaime plan…_ "Daniels is right. The mob works in the shadows? So will we. The mob doesn't wait for search warrants? Neither will we. We will work within the system, but we aren't waiting for the system's permission either."

 _Holy shit._  Something of his surprise must have shown on his face, because Dale was grinning as he looked at him again.

"I'm tired, gentlemen. Tired of watching my town fall to smoke and ash beneath the boot of this man. Tired of watching good, innocent people get trampled in his wake, tired of being pushed aside while he manipulates the world to his liking. No more."

"Why not just kill them?" Daniels had Shane on high alert, everything in his manner suggesting he was already in Greene's pocket despite Dale's insistence the man was clean.

"We start killing like that, we're no better than they are," Oscar said firmly, instantly winning Shane's approval.

"You  _do not_ pull your weapon without cause," Dale ordered. "If your life is in danger, then aim to  _wound_ , not kill. We need them alive. The last thing we want is for any of them to become martyrs."

Dale was absolutely right there. Rick's enthusiasm for vengeance against Greene had made him an outsider, scorned as delusional by the normal press circles, most of who still lived in Greene's pocket. It was one of the many ways Greene had snaked by over the years.

"You really think we'll manage to change anything, Lieutenant?" Lambert asked in a voice more suited to indulging small children, not a supervising officer of the police. Shane couldn't entirely disagree. Not for the hundredth time, he figured they were doomed. Maybe they were… but he wasn't going down without a fight. Not now.

"Change has to start somewhere, right?" Shane asked the room in general. "If we fail... we fail. I don't know about you boys, but I'm going down swingin'."

"Do we even know where to start?" Oscar stroked his chin, his expression thoughtful.  _There's one._  "We don't know where he's running his business from, where to find any of his men… nothing."

"Actually, we have some headway on that," Dale said with a smile. "Shane?"

Shane pulled a manila envelope from his drawer, pointedly ignoring the half full bottle rolling around and snapping it shut again before slipping the envelope's contents onto his desktop.

"Y'all remember Eddy Peletier, showed up deader 'n a doornail about a month ago?"

"The kid who used to shine shoes on Main?" Black asked. Shane couldn't help himself this time, rolling his eyes in disdain.

"No, dummy," he snapped.

"The fat dope in the warehouse," Bassett said slowly. Shane nodded. "Took a slug to the head. What about him?"

"His wife has taken over the family business," Dale said. "A boarding house, about five miles outside town on the south west side."

"So?"

"We have proof that's where Merle  _and_ Daryl Dixon are currently taking up residence, along with several other suspected associates."

Shane passed out the photographs he'd taken from Rick, waiting patiently as the looks of shock and a near gleeful determination crossed the faces present.

"What are we waiting for?" Black said emphatically. "We know where they are! Let's go arrest them!"

Shane sighed and slapped a hand over his face. "Boy, haven't you listened to a damn word? Lemme ask you something, when you get there and pull out those shiny bracelets of yours, what exactly are you plannin' to say?  _We. Have. No. Proof._ "

Shane watched with little sympathy as the kid's face turn beet red.

"We need to catch them in the act." Lambert assumed the role of teacher, speaking towards Black with a much gentler tone than Shane had used. "It isn't just knowing where they are. We've got to get something on them that  _sticks_ , something they can't bluster their way out of like they have before."

"Like a witness?"

"Exactly," Dale said. "Documentation, photographs, witnesses. This isn't just about killing one ant, gentlemen. This is about taking out the whole damn anthill."

"What about other ants?" Daniels asked nonchalantly. "Let's say we pull this cockamaime scheme of yours off and shut down the Greene machine once and for all. Who's to say someone new won't rise up to take his place?"

"Let's start with the anthill we have before us," Dale replied.

"How?"

"Shane," Dale said firmly, turning to the detective. "You've been working the Peletier case from the beginning. Keep at it." They'd talked about this, using Shane's role as the primary detective on dead Ed's file to keep him close to the house. That was going to be his prime target area. "Do everything you can to get close to Mrs. Peletier. We may be able to use her."

 _Say what now?_ Shane stared at Dale, not liking the man's implications. Stalking the house was one thing, even using his role on the force to gain access to the house had been his idea. But bringing Carol herself into this, putting her in potentially more danger than she was already in, had never been part of the deal. Dale's face was stone and Shane realized how blind he'd been where Carol Peletier was involved.

Each time he saw her, he noticed something else about her: a hint of a freckle in the hollow of her throat, the way her hair curled past her ears, the dimple in her cheek when she smiled. Lately, she'd seemed stronger, more vibrant than she'd been before. He'd been finding any excuse to call her, to arrange a meeting to discuss the case of her husband's murder and every time, he'd worked to stretch their meeting as long as possible and started to think up excuses to call again the second she left his sight. For fuck's sake, he hadn't even stopped to think about why he'd been acting like this, what it meant, until now and it slammed into him with all the force of a runaway freight train.

"If she is involved somehow, then she'll have information," Daniels said slowly. "It makes sense. Get close, then see if she'll talk. Walsh, you lucky bastard."

 _Fuck. Fuckity fucking fuck._ This was the obvious maneuver and he should have seen this coming. Hell, he should have  _suggested_  it. God damn it, what was the matter with him?He'd never been swayed by a woman before. Who was Carol Peletier that she could shift him off his axis without him even realizing it?

That he craved her was obvious. It was more than physical though. Shane wanted to protect her. He thought… maybe, he wanted to  _save_  her. He could save her and they'd… what? Run away into the sunset together? Good Christ, is that what he was after? The yearning for the sweet burn of booze blasted through him, the desperate need to drink this sudden realization into oblivious setting his throat on fire.

Dale was rattling off the other assignments, the instructions Shane already knew, that anything the squad did needed to be approved by Dale, but most of all the need for absolute secrecy. Plausible deniability, for one, but it was the only way for those with families to keep them protected. It was unspoken knowledge amongst them all that once they got started, retribution from Greene was sure to follow. The thought made Shane sick to his stomach. He knew, just  _knew_ , that Carol was innocent in this, yet he had the sinking feeling he'd just led her right to the sacrificial fire.

An image of the lovely widow, bloody and broken beyond belief, filled his mind and he nearly howled with it. Her firm, supple flesh gone tight, hard with cold, those blue eyes closed forever…

He was desperate for a drink. His hand was halfway to his desk drawer where salvation lay, meeting be damned, when a loud thunk on his door made them all jump. They watched Dale stride over, every inch the officer in command as he flung the door open with an impatient snarl at being interrupted.

"What?!" Dale shielded the room with his body so the unfortunate sap on the other end couldn't see who was inside. They could still hear though, and Shane realized it was Jefferson, the desk cop, rambling away at high speed.

"Dispatch is looking for you, sir. Patrol found a coupla stiffs washed up along the Chattahochee."

"All right-"

"There's more, sir. Hartigan's is on fire. People are sayin' it was a huge explosion, like a bomb went off or somethin'!"

Shane was on his feet before he realized he'd moved. Hartigan's was  _Greene's_  turf, one of the few places the man admitted to owning publicly. Dale was thanking Jefferson, pushing him back towards his desk before shutting the door with a snap and gazing over the newly established crew. Shane gave the room a quick once over, pleased to see everyone on their feet.

"Any last questions?" Dale asked quickly.

The silence was thick, full of anticipation. Shane was aware that in the space of a moment, they had become something more than what they had been when the meeting started. A squad, a  _team_.  _This could work_. When nobody spoke, Dale's answering smile was grim.

"Good. Time to go to work."

* * *

The fire was huge, great orange flames leaping out and casting their glow all over the street, the thick black column of smoke stretching tall into the sky. He watched, turned in the car so he could see out the window with his one good eye as the first of the fire trucks pulled up, parking haphazardly half onto the curb. The crowd around what remained of Hartigan's was growing as word spread through town, people dressed in their finest attire pulled from their evening of social nonsense to see his plan first hand, to stand by helpless as the incompetent firemen worked to put out the roaring blaze.

"You do good work," he said. The man next to him shifted in his seat, peering around his shoulder.

"Thank you."

Fire was good. It cleansed, purified, and left room for new things to grow.

The information provided had been solid, the bomb child's play to set up. Caesar Martinez was a good find, his work with explosives in the coal mines up north providing him with a background for his new living. He was sharp, eager to learn, but most of all loyal. Loyal to  _him_  for rescuing Martinez from a life underground.

He'd make an excellent second once their plan for Atlanta was complete. Things were looking good. The plan was in motion, the wheels turning.

"Now is the time for greater strides," he murmured.

"Sir?"

"Hershel Greene is an old man full of old ideas," he said. "It's time for a new era.  _My_  era." He settled back into the plush leather with a grin, tapping three times on the back of the driver's seat. "Drive on."

"Yes, Mr. Blake."

The black Lincoln pulled onto the street, blending into the late night traffic in the wake of the raging fire.

__

 


	11. Big Talkin' Newspaper Man

_**A/N:**  Hi guys. I'm sorry this took so much longer than I had originally intended. July was literally the month from hell. Emergency surgery, lost my job, all kinds of fun stuff. Working to get my mojo back! Anyway, enough from me. Let the shenanigans ensue!_

_Let me know if you like this! :)_

* * *

**Chapter 11: Big Talking Newspaper Man**

It was a dingy little studio apartment, nothing more than a simple room with a desk, a beaten sofa with the springs hanging out, a sink and a hot plate on the tiny counter. The bed unfolded from a compartment in the wall. The door to the john was so small you had to turn sideways to squeeze through it. It was cramped, suffocating with the constant cloud of smoke that hung in the air and that was without the newspapers. They were everywhere, knee high stacks piled on the floor so you had to step over and around then to get anywhere, ripped and marked sections scattered all over the couch and the desk, burying everything under a mess of thick grease paper and smeared ink. There were even articles taped to the wall:

MOB WARFARE TEARS ATLANTA APART

DEATH TOLL RISES - WILL IT EVER END?

POLICE HUNT MYSTERY KILLER

CITY CRACKS DOWN - PRESSURE ON ORGANIZED CRIME

Below this, bare chested and disheveled, Rick Grimes sat at his desk, fingers clickety-clacking away at his prized Victoria typewriter like a man possessed.

The three months since Hartigan's went up in flames had been a gold mine of headlines. Nothing sold papers like violence. After years of toil, Rick Grimes was finally seeing his name where it belonged: on the front page. It was about time. Who had been all over it from day one, telling the citizens what they needed to know? Who'd been putting himself on the line, day after crummy goddamn day? Not those two bit lollipops, dressed to the nines and willing to print anything anybody tells them for a wad of lettuce. No, Rick Grimes stood for truth, for  _justice._  He was the voice of the common people, dammit, not the over-dressed filth that ruled his town.

It was a start, but the headlines weren't enough. Even now, his chickenshit editor wouldn't print anything against Greene, slashing his work until no mention of the true mastermind of Atlanta's criminal underworld remained. It was a travesty, having his work altered by that thick skulled has-been, but it wouldn't be this way for long, no sir. His time was at hand.

Rick was a man of principle, integrity and honor; always had been. He'd gone through the Academy with his best friend Shane, full of boyish dreams of stamping out crime and serving Atlanta. They would be partners, detectives just like Dick Tracy in the comics.  _Heroes_. Rick and Shane, together. They'd indeed been set up as partners once they joined the force, just like they'd hoped for, and for a while it seemed all their ambitions would be reality. By the end of their first year, Shane was on the take and Rick was horrified at the corruption that blackened the very system that was meant to keep people safe. Instead, good people were punished and ran around scared and the bad people walked the streets fearless and proud, secure in the knowledge of being  _untouchable_. He'd lasted another three years by telling himself to be an example for change, doing police work of the highest integrity. Besides, his family was counting on him.

Rick had met Lori Phelan during his first year at the Academy. She was everything he'd ever dreamed of: lovely, delicate and sweet. He'd fallen hard and fast and thought she had to. They were married six months after they met, over the objections of her family. He didn't care about that. He had the perfect woman, a great job and his best friend at his side. He was going to change the world.

Except everything fell apart. He snapped, disgusted by the lack of honor among the force. Shane's downward spiral grew worse, greed and alcohol destroying his friend before his eyes until he couldn't watch left, resigning with a flourish of public declarations and his badge thrown on the captain's desk in the hopes his example would inspire others to follow his lead. Rick knew the fire of leadership flowed in his veins, that others would gladly follow where he lead if given a chance. It was fear, fear enforced by  _Hershel Greene_  that kept them from him, Greene that made them pretend he was a laughingstock of society.

It was Greene that stole his wife.

They'd fought after he left the force. Lori had worried about how they'd survive, where they'd live, all of that. Typical women's worries. He kept telling her it didn't matter as long as they had each other and once he'd landed this gig at the  _Journal_ , he'd thought that would be the end of it.

She'd left sometime during the night, leaving him with a note, emptied closets and a house that echoed with the ghost of her presence… and no way to contact her. Rick had fought the divorce the second he'd received the initial papers; oh, how he'd fought. He knew without a shadow of a doubt Lori's leaving was Greene's doing. He didn't know how the man had conned his sweet wife, but it was Greene, or one of his cronies, that had taken her. His suspicions were confirmed a year after he'd lost the battle to prevent their divorce when the society page of his  _own newspaper_  had printed a picture of Lori on  _his_  arm.

It was the final insult. Rick could not,  _would_  not, let this stand. None of it. Hershel Greene was a cancer. Rick was going to find cure, cut it out at the root and reveal the ugly truth to the world, by any means necessary.

"Rick?"

"Not now," Rick mumbled as he typed furiously.  _I don't have time for this._  He heard the rusted bed springs squeak and squeal and banged his fingers harder on the keys, trying to drown out the noise that was distracting him from his newest article.

"Sugar?" The scent of lilacs enveloped him as her arms skimmed down his shoulders. Her hands were warm and soft and tousled blonde locks fell around him as she leaned over, dropping tiny kisses along his neck. His fingers slowed of their own accord as he let himself lean back into her.

"Andrea..."

"Sugar, you've been at this for hours," Andrea purred in his ear. "Take a break."

Rick sighed, dropping his hands and spinning his chair to take her in. She was loosely wrapped in his sheet, miles of tanned, scented skin on display. He felt the warm burn of want simmer in his veins as she settled herself on his lap.

"It's gotta be perfect."

"It  _will_  be," Andrea said soothingly.

"There's an angle out there I haven't thought of." He was muttering into the skin of her neck, nibbling along as his hands worked their way under the sheet. "The Dixons, Peletier, the fires, the bodies… it all points to Greene, I know it. People just need to  _see_."

"They  _will_ , sugar."

Andrea was a hell of a dame. She wasn't Lori, didn't have the same tenderness in her, but she was bold and strong. He didn't care much about her day job as long as she came to him at night to bring him information and caress him with her hot little limbs. She was on the inside, and he needed her. She helped him work through his bouts of writer's block, encouraged him and helped him forget when he needed to.

"I just can't make it work," Rick mumbled.

"Tell you what," Andrea whispered as she licked the shell of his ear. "Come to bed for a few hours. Let me make you feel good. Then, you get up…" A soft kiss on his mouth. "Get dressed." Another kiss and Rick groaned, shifting so she could feel his growing hardness against her hip. "Get out of this apartment." A longer kiss this time, her talented tongue darting out to tickle his lips. "Go eat some food, maybe take a walk. Let the fresh air clear your head."

He grabbed her by her lovely blonde curls, holding her head so he could ravish her mouth. She raked her nails down his back in the way he loved, relishing in the sting left on his skin. By the time he broke the kiss to breathe, she was whimpering and writhing in his lap.

"I think you're right," Rick said. "I think a walk is exactly what I need…  _Later_."

The sounds of their joining filled the apartment, drowning out the noise of his neighbors as they banged on the walls.

* * *

Daryl could make out the rowdy sounds of the boys enjoying a smoke and maybe an afternoon drink or two in Carol Peletier's parlor. It was early still, the sun just starting it's daily drop towards the horizon. The light burned warm and gold through the trees, casting dappled shadows along the ground. The sweet tang of peaches filled the air, making his mouth water. The peach trees were in full bloom, ripe globes of the sweet fruit hanging off the trees in the grove ahead. He idly wondered if it meant Carol was going to make peach cobbler again. He'd be an hour late to the club for a taste of that woman's cooking.  _Could go for a taste of something else - no, quit it, ya dope._

Three months. Three months of tiptoeing around each other since  _The Dance That Will Never Be Mentioned Again_ , of forced nonchalance and stilted conversation during the day, of dreams at night filled with blue eyes and soft curves that left him aching and sticky wet when he woke. He desperately told himself they didn't mean anything. It  _couldn't_  mean anything. He couldn't afford the distraction.

They'd lost two more joints since Hartigan's, one to fire and another outright defecting, as well as a dozen lower-level button men in a turf war that was raging out of control. The old man was fuming, the boys were being hunted, none of them were sleeping, fucking flatfoots were swarming… it was a mess.  _A god damn epic cluster fuck._ The weight on Daryl's shoulders was enough to sink a man twice his size, yet here we was.  _Still kicking_.

The creak of the screen door jolted Daryl back to his senses and he turned see the slender figure of Carol, silhouetted by the sun as she paused for a moment to stretch her arms over her head. Warmth throbbed low in his belly as his cock stirred to life at the sight.  _Goddamn traitor._

"I have got to get those hinges oiled," Carol muttered, clearly talking to herself.

"Wouldn't be a bad idea," Daryl drawled.

"Oh." Carol jumped, spinning to him and stepping just enough that he could make out her features now that she wasn't backlit. "I didn't see you there, Daryl."

Distraction or not, he had to admit he would never get tired of hearing his name on her lips. He tilted his head and took her in: her hair was up, her face delicately painted; she was either going somewhere or coming back.

"Going or coming?"

"I had an appointment with Detective Walsh," she replied archly.

Daryl felt the tension clench on the already tight muscles in his shoulders. On top of everything else, the investigation into the death of Edgar Peletier was still ongoing, much to Daryl's chagrin. It should have been case closed early. He'd mentioned it to the old man again at their last meeting, resulting in a glare and a muttered curse that he'd handle it. Greene had whispered something to Merle, who'd simply nodded and moved onto the next subject.

"Any news on the case?" Daryl asked with feigned nonchalance, pretending intense interest in the grooves of his black and silver flask. When nothing answered him but silence, he finally looked up to see Carol watching him with an amused expression. Her eyes said it all and he found himself smirking back at her despite himself. "You're right. I don' wanna know."

Awkward things might be between them, but the days of Carol taking  _any_  of their shit while they lived in her house were long done. Part of him was pleased to see the firecracker he'd met at the funeral come back into the light. He had no idea how much of it was Carol finally coming to some sort of ease with her lot in life and how much of it was Andrea's influence, but for the most part he enjoyed it.

It seemed to be an unspoken agreement between Merle, Carol and Andrea that whatever exactly had transpired between the three of them the night before Carol's appearance at the club was a closed matter. Daryl had never been given the details, despite badgering Merle. Daryl had gotten a sock to the kisser for his troubles and no information.

"So what brings you sneaking out the back door? Ain't your usual routine."

"Your brother is home," Carol said dryly. "Can't blame a girl for wanting some air before dealing with that."  _That explains a bit._  Snarky though she may be, Carol still made it a point to have as little contact with Merle as possible.

"Do you remember Prohibition?" Daryl asked suddenly. Carol arched an eyebrow and perched lightly on the porch railing, folding her hands in her lap.

"Of course I do."

"My pa and his brothers had a still built in our basement before it went into effect," Daryl said, spinning and knuckling the cap of his flask like kid with a silver dollar. "Ready to go, just like that. Volstead Act went into effect and they're selling bottles of cheap hooch worth ten cents for three clams a pop. Pa had me an' Merle sealing bottles and loading crates every second we weren't in school. Police would swing by at night, neighbors thought it was another raid, but really they were just looking for a drink."

She was watching him with a curious gleam in her eye. He tried to ignore her fingers, idly sliding the soft fabric of her plum dress between each slender digit.

"Are you trying to tell me bootlegging for your father is your excuse for being the way you are?"

Something, a shadow maybe, out in the peach grove caught his eye and he watched for a long minute. There was nothing but trees and fruit, scattered shadows over the grass.

"Maybe it's time to accept your circumstances," Daryl said shortly. "I didn't want to spend my afternoons sweating over old bottles but I did it anyway. Avoiding my brother isn't gonna make your situation any easier. He's noticing." He didn't like being so short with her, but it was long past time for Carol to get with the program.

Carol chuckled and, to his great surprise, snatched his flask from his fingers and took a long pull. Daryl watched the bob of her throat as she swallowed, letting his eyes drift down the long graceful arch of her neck, to the curve of her shoulder to the hint of her collarbone peeking out just past the collar of her plum dress, so much peachy skin that he just  _knew_  would be as sweet as the fruit itself on his tongue.  _Goddamn_ , but he wanted a taste, his mouth suddenly dry with a longing no drink could cure.

"I remember the night before the Volstead Act went into effect," Carol said softly. "My father had business in Atlanta and he took me with him. After he'd gotten all his work done, he took me shopping and we stayed for a late dinner, just him and me. After night fell, people took to the streets like it was New Year's Eve. We walked alongside people carrying grocery baskets full of beer, men filling baby carriages with bottles of corn liquor while the women carried squalling children. There was a band…" She paused for a moment, staring at his flask like it was the most interesting thing she'd ever seen, running a dainty fingertip along the rim. "I could hear the music, but there were too many people, so my father lifted me up and sat me on his shoulders. He was so tall he stood over most of a crowd. I could see everything, sitting on his shoulders."

Daryl wasn't sure he was actually breathing, captivated by the slow pitch of her voice, by the way the rays lit up her hair and danced along her skin.

"It was a jazz band, marching down Main Street like they were in a parade and behind them, a group of men carried a coffin. I actually thought for a moment it was a real funeral until they got close enough for me to see. It was a coffin, but inside was a giant bottle someone had made, a mockup. John Barleycorn." Carol smiled and finally raised her eyes from his flask, meeting his head on. They were warm and bright but sharp, painfully so, and the smile that Daryl had almost given faded away. "They were having a funeral march for their whiskey. We stayed, watching the band and the people. They were lined up along the streets, out on their balconies and in their yards. They had a countdown to midnight, just like at New Year's Eve. At twelve, the band played a funeral march and everyone fell so quiet. Even after the band finished that solemn,  _horrible_  music, they stayed quiet."

She reached out her hand to him and Daryl silently passed her the cap to his flask, his fingers tingling at the warmth of hers as they brushed lightly across her palm. Nimble fingers screwed the top on. Daryl's collar suddenly felt tight and he pulled futilely on his tie.

"All those people and there wasn't a sound, not a whisper," Carol continued. Daryl couldn't name the expression on her face. "Not until someone shouted 'Prohibition!' Then the crowd erupted into the loudest cheer I'd ever heard and all of a sudden it was raining champagne. They were dumping it by the bucket load, from their roofs and balconies onto the people in the street. People were waving their drinks in the air and dancing in the street, drunk as Cooter Brown. Nobody  _cared_ that it was illegal. That's when it hit me."

She stood, brushing invisible lint from her dress and holding her free hand out to Daryl, who had leaned forward to stand as she did. At her gesture, he sank back into his seat and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and resting his chin on his clasped hands.

"It was a game," Carol said. "It was all just a  _game_  to them. Outlawing liquor wasn't going to stop them from drinking anymore than a ban on smoking would make people quit that. I've accepted the situation I'm in but I'll deal with it  _my_  way. Maybe  _you_ should spend less time worrying about my circumstances and more time worrying about your own."

 _You sly little minx._  She'd picked up on more than he'd realized. Every time he thought he had the angle on Carol Peletier, she did something else that surprised him. Skittish mouse. Fierce tiger. Soft and supple one second, bold as brass the next, with a sharp eye and a sharper mind. This was a dish that kept a man on his toes. He was going to have to keep a better eye on her.

Carol tossed him the flask and strode toward the door. He snapped it up in one hand and gave it a wiggle.

"It's empty," Daryl said wryly. Carol paused by his chair, one hand braced on the door frame as she smirked at him over her shoulder.

"You drink too much, Daryl Dixon."

 _Well, fuck me._ Ducking his head to hide the grin he couldn't control, Daryl stuffed his flask back in his jacket and stood, about to follow Carol into the house when the sharp skitter of movement caught his attention again from the corner of his eye. He froze, waiting, the long, stretched out second before the downbeat of a moment and was rewarded with a telltale flash. Light bouncing off something metal.  _A camera_.

"Son of a bitch," Daryl swore. "Get inside."

"Daryl?" Carol had turned, taken a step away from the door but Daryl grabbed her arm and pushed her back over the threshold.

"Stay inside!"

He was down the stairs and across the lawn in a flash, streaking towards the figure that scrambled to untangle itself from one of the low bushes scattered along the grove. He was fast. Daryl was faster. He snatched the dolt's collar and had him shoved up against a peach tree, resisting the urge to reach for his Colt.

"Milton Mamet," Daryl snarled. "Still sniffin' around for your ol' buddy Grimes? What a loyal dog."

"M-M-Mr. D-Dixon…" The photographer was stammering and flushed, his spectacles knocked sideways across his face from the force of Daryl's grip. He was holding a Kodak tight in one fist, down at his side, trying and failing to keep it from Daryl's vision. Daryl pressed harder on Mamet's windpipe, cutting off his air supply and taking a vicious pleasure in the sound of the man's choking gasps.

"Afternoon, Mr. Dixon." Daryl felt his hackles rise up at the irritating drawl of Rick Grimes himself. He turned and looked over his shoulder to see the lanky figure of the reporter standing just as casual as you please. "I don't see a need to fuss now, do you?"

"This is  _private property_." Daryl kept his voice low and smooth, belying the near irrational pull of anger twisting inside him. Grimes was a nuisance, a boil on the butt of humanity as far as Daryl was concerned. He released Mamet, letting the smaller man drop in a heap at his feet as Daryl stood straight, fixing a glare at the former lawman. "You fellas get what that means?"

"Now, now." Grimes had the insufferable tone of the assuredly self righteous, convinced of his own superiority. Daryl had been dealing with smarmy pricks just like this his whole life. Now he spat in their faces. "We didn't realize we'd come across anyone's property. We were just out for a late afternoon stroll… discussing the  _horrible_  violence that has befallen our fair town. You wouldn't have anything to say about that, now, would you, Mr. Dixon?"

"It's just like you said." His voice could have frozen ice, it was so cold. "A horrible tragedy. Here's hopin' the good boys of Atlanta's finest put a stop to this madness soon."

They stared at each other, the reporter and the henchman, across a thick silence that said more than words ever could, full of lies and deceits the other was fully aware of. Grimes still had that ridiculous smirk on his face. Daryl had rarely seen any other look on him and thought about asking if that was his permanent expression. He decided against it. Grimes broke first.

"Very well said, Mr. Dixon."

"You can quote me on that," Daryl said dryly. "Here, lemme help you there, Milton." He turned and hoisted the hapless photographer to his feet by his armpits, swiping the camera from his sweaty palm. "It  _is_  Milton, isn't it?"

"Be careful!" Mamet reached out with shaking hands for his camera. "It's a Kodak-"

"A Kodak Retina II," Daryl interjected. "It's a nice camera you've got here. Shame it had to get all dirty."

"Give it back!"

"I'm just gonna help you clean it, Milton." Daryl popped the back casing open, sliding a nimble finger beneath the spool of exposed film and ripping out the entire roll. He smiled benignly at both men, Rick with a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration while Milton wailed in horror and frustration. "There. Ain't it better without all that junk in it?" Daryl handed the empty camera back to Milton Mamet, taking an extra moment to straighten the smaller man's collar. "Next time, fellas, try not to hop any fences on your… afternoon stroll. You never know where you'll end up."

Daryl waited until Grimes grabbed his companion's arm, dragging him away to the sedan parked out on the bend. ' _Walk' my ass._  He stuffed the wad of ruined film in his pocket, deciding to avoid the house for now. He made his way instead through the small grove to the center clearing, a perfect circle in the middle of the cluster of peach trees. It was just a patch of grass and some wild flowers that danced in the light breeze. There was a weathered wood and wrought iron bench off to the side and he sank down with a sigh, the old planks squeaking wearily under his weight.

He wondered what on earth could possibly happen next.

* * *

_**A/N:** The Volstead Act (aka The National Prohibition Act) was the official order carrying out the intent of the Eighteenth Amendment to the US Constitution and formally established prohibition in the United States. It was named for Andrew Volstead, the Chairman of the House Judiciary Committee, who managed the legislation of the act. It went into effect at the stroke of midnight, January 17, 1920._

_Dick Tracy premiered on October 4, 1931 as a weekly comic serial in the Detroit Mirror and quickly grew in popularity to national syndication through the Chicago Tribune New York News Syndicate. I thought about having Rick & Shane idolize The Lone Ranger, but Dick Tracy seemed to fit with my theme better. So there. (For the record, The Lone Ranger premiered as a radio serial on January 30, 1933. See, read good fanfic and learn a little history in the process. Woot!)_

_A couple people have mentioned they aren't quite familiar with some of the slang I'm using in this fic, so here is a quick explanation of words used in this chapter:_

_'lettuce' - money_  
'lollipop' - person without a backbone; weak, naive  
'on the take' - a dirty cop, accepting bribes and such from those involved with illegal activities to look the other way


	12. The Fury and The Sound

_**A/N:** Because I love all of you, have a monster of a chapter. Have fun! ;)_

* * *

**Chapter 12: The Fury and the Sound**

_The sun beat down, casting its light in a warm orange glow over them as they rolled naked in the grass. Daryl groaned, his head lolling back in the soft green of the small clearing with the scent of peaches filling his nose. Carol twisted her hips as she straddled him, grinding down on his erection as her nails dug into his chest. She was panting, whimpering his name over and over while his hands explored every inch of smooth skin, pale gold in the light, skimming around the curve of her hips before sliding up to pluck at her pebbled nipples. She leaned down to tease at his lips, licking and lapping until his control snapped. He grabbed and rolled them again, pressing her into the grass as he settled between her legs, all semblance of rhythm gone as his tongue darted into the wet cavern of her mouth._

_"_ _Can't wait anymore," Daryl panted. Carol was moaning, her luscious body writhing beneath him as her hands pulled at his hair, sending shivers of delight racing down his spine._

_"_ _Oh, god. Please, Daryl. Now, Daryl. Daryl!_ _**Daryl!** _ _"_

Daryl jerked awake, sitting up in his bed with a shout. The sheets were damp, clinging to his sweat soaked skin as he tried to remember how to breathe. The dream was so real, so vivid, he could still feel the ghost of Carol's hands on his body. His worn cotton sleep pants felt sticky and wet; he'd come in his pants like a fuckin' teenager.  _Christ._

"Son of a  _bitch_ ," he gasped. His heart was pounding, a rapid  _thumpthumpthump_  in his chest that ran counter to the solid  _thwunks_  of Merle banging on the door and calling his name. "Shit, Merle,  _what_?"

The door banged open and Daryl yelped, grabbing the duvet to cover his naked body as his brother lurked in the threshold. Merle was dressed already, his face red and eyes still bleary from sleep.

"Rise and shine, lil' brother," Merle said swiftly. "Powder delivery's been moved up."

"To when?" Daryl rubbed his hand across his face, trying to shake the cobwebs of sleep and will his still half-hard cock back to sleep without Merle noticing.

"This mornin'. I'll explain in the car. Hoof it, beautiful." Merle was gone, leaving the door slamming against the jamb in his wake. Daryl groaned and slumped down into the tangled mess of pillows and bed sheets. His body ached, need and sleepy desire still pulsing through him, warring with the need to get up, get alert.

_I'm losing my fuckin' mind._

* * *

Carol flipped the rashers of bacon, enjoying the pop and sizzle of the frying meat. She had the radio turned on low, filling the room with the sultry siren song of Peggy Lee. The Knuckleheads, as she thought of Jackson and Randall, were already at the table. Her mama used to say you could take the measure of a man by how he ate his food. Randall drove her  _crazy_ , slopping his grits and honey over the edge of his plate like a toddler. He ate like he'd never see another meal again; head down and snorting like a pig as he inhaled his food. Jackson talked with his mouth full. Already she could see bits of egg and toast sprayed halfway across the table.

The door swung open and Thom Crowley came into the kitchen. He already had on his coat, which Carol knew by now meant he wouldn't be eating. She quickly poured him a cup of coffee, passing it to him with a small smile.

"Morning, ma'am." Crowley was quiet and polite. He never called her by her first name, always addressing her as 'ma'am' or, rarely, Mrs. Peletier.

"Hey!" Jackson's abrasive voice cut through the air. "Are we gonna get bacon here or what, sweet cheeks?" Carol resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she turned back to the frying pan. She judged the bacon to need another minute or two.

"It's almost done," she shot back. "Hold your horses."

"You're feisty this morning."  _Smarmy asshole._

"Wait until you get  _me_  going," Crowley said lowly. "Now shut up and eat your food."

"Ain't my boss," Jackson growled.  _Oh, good. We're going to have one of_ _ **those**_ _mornings._

"No, but  _I_ am." None of them had noticed Merle make his entrance. He leaned casually on the new blue and white Philco refrigerator, a "gift" from Hershel Greene to accommodate the increased food storage needed to run the house. Merle was in his vest and shirt, his suit jacket folded over his arm. "You're done eatin', both of ya. No questions." Merle produced an envelope and handed it to Jackson, who had leapt to his feet, albeit with a disgruntled expression on his face. "Now get gone, boys. It's a busy day."

Carol turned her back to the scene, quickly scooping up the crispy bacon and turning off the stove as the clatter of feet told her Jackson and Randall had left. She heaved a sigh of relief as she went to turn the radio off. Merle had made it clear he didn't like the radio on while he ate.

"It's all right." Carol turned to see Merle pouring himself a couple of coffee. "Ain't staying long this mornin'."

"I'm gone," Crowley said. "Daryl with me today?" Carol busied herself with straightening the kitchen. She opened the cupboard where she kept kitchen supplies and grabbed a small paper sack.

"He will be later," Merle replied. "I need 'im this mornin'."

There was a large bowl on the counter that she kept fill with fruit for anyone to snack on throughout the day. Carol stole a couple of apples and stuffed them inside the paper sack and passed them to Crowley without asking.

"Fair enough." Crowley drained the last of his coffee and put his cup in the sink. He turned to Carol, lifting the sack with a small smile in her direction. _"_ _Go raibh maith agat."_  She smiled at the use of old Irish as Crowley let himself out the back door. Merle leaned against the counter, dunking his bacon in his coffee and checking his watch impatiently as he munched on his breakfast. Carol grabbed a rag and started wiping down the counters.

"Is Daryl going to eat?"

"Not if he takes much longer."  _Dunk, munch, munch._  Carol went to clear the table and groaned at the mess The Knuckleheads had left behind.

"So how much do you think Mr. Greene will make me pay to have Jackson and Randall live somewhere else?"

"I'll chip in for a piece of that action," Daryl said as he came in. He wore his trenchcoat and hat already, so Carol guessed he wasn't planning to eat after all.

"Ha!" Merle snorted into his coffee mug. "I'll have to ask the old man about that one."

"Please do," Carol said archly as she passed Merle, snatching the empty coffee cup from his hands and adding it atop the armful of dishes she carried. "Is anyone going to be home for dinner?"

"If the boys keep to the schedule, we should all be here," Merle said as he slipped into his jacket. That was rare. Most of the time she didn't have more than two or three for dinner, even though it was a meal she was required to provide them under the terms of her agreement with Hershel Greene. "And we'll be using the dining room tonight. Got some things to discuss."  _A business dinner. That makes more sense._

"I'll keep myself scarce, then," Carol replied. Merle nodded sharply in return.

"Well, Widow Peletier, do we look respectable enough to go about our day?"

Carol gritted her teeth at Merle's address. He was aware of her distaste for the moniker 'Widow Peletier', and she  _knew_  he was only doing it to rile her up. It seemed to be a favorite game of his. Most times she ignored it, part of staying as far away from Merle as possible.  _Screw it. Let's see what happens._

She turned and narrowed her eyes at the Dixon brothers, giving each of them an obvious once-over.  _Screw it. Let's see what happens._

"Daryl looks terrific," Carol purred slowly, "but  _you_  look like a Bible salesman."

Merle looked gobsmacked as Daryl let loose a shout of laughter,  _real_  laughter, and pushed his brother out of the room, leaving Carol alone and tickled pink at her daring.

* * *

"Bible salesman," Merle muttered. He was slumped low against the plush leather as Daryl drove, weaving the Cadillac through the increasing traffic as they approached downtown Atlanta. His brother was still smirking, clearly trying to hold back at Merle's continued grumbling. "Woman's startin' to get damn cheeky."

In truth, he  _liked_  Carol Peletier with a bit of bite to her. It suited her, that hint of sass that lurked just below her respectable widow's surface. He didn't care much for women beyond what pleasure he could get from the sweet notch between a great set of gams. A dame was always one of two things: emotional and clingy, so desperate to please a man that he'd take care of her,  _like his ma had been_ , or frigid and tough as nails, all talk and no pussy.  _Like Andrea_. God,  _there_  was a broad that was turning out to be a particular pain his ass.

He pulled his flask from his coat pocket and took a long swig, the Irish whiskey flooding his system and bringing a grim smile to his face.

"Mr. Blue is extending his stay," Merle warned. Daryl didn't say anything, just sighed and nodded. "The old man wants to reroute the shipments from Mexico. He doesn't want it anywhere near the club anymore."

"Where to?" He could tell his brother was in work mode now, already clicking through the list of things that needed to be done in his head.  _Good boy._

"Mackie's," Merle replied, referring to one of the larger drugstore's downtown. "Basement job for now while Crowley scouts out a couple places." He knew without saying anything further that Daryl had heard the silent order to handle the smaller details of the temporary operation. Daryl was good with details, keeping the cogs in the Greene machine turning.

He'd worked hard with Daryl, ingraining in him the same mindset and skills he'd used himself to climb up the ladder in Greene's empire. Some things hadn't taken as well as Merle would have liked; Daryl's token sympathy for the plights of women and children would to be his undoing if they weren't careful. The situation with the Peletier woman was a prime example. It had been Daryl who'd fought with him and Greene to make sure the arrangement with Eddy P's widow kept her out of harm's way. Merle hadn't given two shits what happened to the tomato, personally. It was the old man's deal and he'd let Daryl win that round. He still wasn't sure he cared - he'd have let Jackson paw up that skirt all he wanted. That was  _her_  problem to deal with. Greene had insisted though, after Daryl's bellyaching, that she was off limits for _all_ of them.  _Fine and dandy_. He could get better pussy at 2 o'clock on a Tuesday and everyone knew it. No skin off his nose. Still, he kept one eye on his little brother, now more than ever. His other eye he kept fixed firmly on the prize; the sweet, sweet take that drew ever closer to his fingertips.

Most people didn't realize it, but Merle Dixon was a big picture kinda guy. He weighed all the consequences of any decision, the immediate  _and_  the long term. It was that vision that got him to where he was, the second to the big man himself. Years ago, he'd thought about starting up his own operation, but had immediately nixed the idea. Greene was already a powerhouse in the South by that time and Merle would have had to start from scratch. At that time the old man had been ruthless, an attitude that allowed zero competition for his businesses. Merle picked up quick that it was better to be the right hand of the devil than in his path, so that's what he shot for. It worked, and he'd striven swiftly to prove himself the most loyal of all. Greene gave direct commands to only a select handful of men, loyal and trusted through their years of service, and even then Merle was usually in the room. Most of the orders were given through Merle and he had a large amount of control in the day to day mechanics of the Greene machine. He knew that someday soon, it would all result in the big prize.

Hershel Greene had no sons, just a spoiled chit of a girl barely out of her pleats and pigtails. His sham marriage to gold digging Lori Grimes had not provided him with the sons he'd hoped for. He retaliated now by ignoring his wife, spending hours of his day locked in his offices drinking and occasionally indulging himself with one of the girls from Andrea's bordello. Even that was becoming rare as Greene crept closer and closer to facing his own mortality. While his mind was sharp, he confessed more than once to Merle of lacking the stomach for much of the severe ruthlessness that had defined his youth.  _'It was a younger man's game'_ , he said. Merle nodded seriously every time, giving his ear and indulging his master with every luxury he could think of. Merle  _knew_ , deep in his bones, the day was coming where he would inherit Hershel Greene's empire. It was his  _right_ , the reward that he'd spent years dreaming of. Soon,  _he'd_  be the one with all the power.

That's why this war was so unnerving. The last upstart who'd tried to muscle their way into Greene's territory had found himself at the bottom of the river with cement shoes. That had been over a decade ago. The lousy Daego had been stupid, young and hotheaded, which made him easy to catch. Merle had personally overseen his demise and enjoyed every second of it. This guy though…  _Philip Blake_. That's all they had: a name. Rumors of him came through their various connections across the country. He was apparently smart and charming yet vicious and unpredictable. Word was he'd been run out of Los Angeles by Mickey Cohen himself. What the hell he was doing here in Atlanta was anyone's guess. All of their birddogging had given them bupkus. No ID, no tax records. Hell, Merle couldn't even find immunization papers on Blake. The guy was a ghost. Merle had put up enough reward money that something good should have come up through the grapevine by now. Yet… nothing.

There was no pattern to the places Blake hit or the people he killed. It was guerilla warfare, plain and simple. Greene was near breaking and Merle was itching for the signal from the old man to finally,  _finally_  fight back. Fire with fire. It was time to throw down with this West Coast asshole, before there wasn't anything left for Merle to inherit.

Merle was jolted from his inner turmoil as the car jerked to a stop in the alley behind Mackie's Drugstore. He checked his watch and saw it was just after ten.  _Right on time_. He and Daryl made their way from the alley to watch the trucks pull in, the precious cargo already being loaded into the basement storage area.

To his surprise, the back door opened and Thom Crowley came outside, looking worried and waving for Merle.

"Handle them, will ya?" Merle said quietly to Daryl. His brother just nodded, nudging him in the shoulder before striding off to talk shop with the men unloading the crates. If Crowley was  _here_ , something had gone wrong. The burly Irishman leaned in, speaking almost directly in Merle's ear.

"Got a message from Theodore," Crowley said urgently. "The old man wants to talk to you.  _Now_."

 _Fuck._  Merle nodded, clapped Crowley on the shoulder and went inside Mackie's to use the phone.

* * *

Daryl slipped the leader of the transport crew the thick roll of bills as the last crate was unloaded. He could see Crowley pacing by the door, a move that set his teeth on edge.  _Somethin's wrong._

He waited as the door to the cellar was padlocked and the men shuffled themselves into the back of the box truck before making his way to Crowley. Daryl pulled his lighter and the slim gold cigarette case from his jacket pocket and tapped one out, taking a long, slow pull and letting the nicotine ease his nerves. Out of politeness, he silently proffered the neat rows of slim, white hand-rolled cigarettes to Crowley, who shook his head.

"I'd rather drink," Crowley said tersely. He knew Crowley didn't smoke, but he was the only person on earth Daryl would be willing to share with. He offered every time, and every time Crowley refused. Daryl soughed around the cig in his mouth, stowing his case and lighter back in their pocket.

"No time like the present," Daryl mumbled. He knew Crowley didn't smoke, but he was the only person on earth Daryl would be willing to share with. He offered every time, and every time Crowley refused. He waited, impatiently tapping his foot, but just as Crowley opened his mouth, the door slammed open and Merle sidled out, the look on his face unexpected in its calm smugness. Whatever it was, Merle had accepted it,  _welcomed_ it even.

"Well, fellas," Merle said quietly as he snatched the cig from Daryl's mouth and took a long drag, taking a moment to blow a series of small smoke rings out of his mouth before exhaling the rest into their faces. "Orders right from the old man. We're going to the mattresses."

* * *

The day had flown by. Carol had managed to finish most of the chores for the day: floors polished, linens changed and the bags for cleaning delivered to Jacqui's Launderette. She'd even managed to get the rug in the parlor turned. Now she was back in her kitchen, getting dinner ready. With all of the men expected to be home, she decided to go all out and make fried chicken. The dining room table was set for the five of them; she'd take her own meal here in the kitchen once the men were eating. The chicken was marinating in a mix of buttermilk and herbs, the potatoes were in the oven, the salad mixed and set aside in the fridge to keep alongside a large pitcher of lemonade. Now her hands were sticky with the short dough she was rolling out onto the floured cutting board.

"Carol?" It was Daryl's voice calling out for her.

 _Daryl._  That was a thing Carol tried hard not to think about. Not about how the blue of his eyes reminded her of the ocean, or how the sound of his voice sent shivers through her body.  _Stop that, Carol._

"In here!"

The door swung open to allow Daryl and Crowley to stroll their way into the kitchen, both of them with their jackets off and shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow. Carol swallowed thickly at the sight Daryl made, with his tie loosened and the top buttons undone enough that she could the dip in the hollow of his throat and the faint tan line left behind by his collar.  _Quit it, girl._ There was no denying Daryl was handsome, with a thick mop of fine, sandy hair and fine features. She hadn't been dead, all those years with Edgar. She had eyes and could certainly see the appeal of men like Daryl Dixon. The trick was that five months of sharing space with Greene's men had given her an insight others missed.  _That road only leads to trouble._

"Sweet lord, but it smells good in here," Daryl groaned. "I'm starvin'."

"Well I thought I'd make enough food for an army," Carol smiled as she grabbed a shot glass that had never shot anything but short dough, "but knowing you boys, it won't last the meal."

"I have nothing against good Southern food," Crowley said as he leaned on the counter, snatching an apple from the fruit bowl, "but I'd damn near sell my soul for a good bowl of colcannon."

"You can get colcannon at McLeod's Diner," Daryl laughed.

"They don't make it right."

"You sound like a little boy who just found out he won't get any cake after supper," Carol said.

"Yeah, he gets like that when it comes to Irish food," Daryl said as he grabbed a couple bottles of Blue Ribbon from the fridge. "Don't take it personal, now."

"Well, I've never tried to make colcannon," Carol said as she slid the tray of biscuits into the oven next to the potatoes. "Tonight's fried chicken, but I do make a mean bowl of Dublin Coddle."

"Ma'am, you just found the way to my heart." Crowley took her hand, ignoring the grit of oil, flour and bits of dough that covered her skin and brought it to his lips with a grin and a wink. Carol smirked and rolled her eyes, turning away to get the chicken when she saw Daryl, standing there watching them with a dark look in his eyes. She hadn't seen him look like that since they spoke at Ed's funeral. Crowley must have seen the same because he dropped her hand as if it had burned him.

Carol turned to her cooking, mixing the batter of flour and spices and setting the oil on the stove to heat while she tried to ignore Daryl and Crowley, now huddled at the kitchen table in a whispered exchange.  _What on earth was that about?_  She dipped the chicken in the batter and started laying pieces in the hot pan, enjoying the pop and sizzle as the meat started to fry.

A door slammed and she heard muffled voices, shouts of abrasive laughter. Jackson and Randall, most likely. Merle was nearly as quiet as Daryl could be when he got home.

"Dinner should be up in five," she called softly over her shoulder. Nobody answered and she looked to see she was alone in the kitchen.  _Figures._  She went to pull the potatoes and biscuits from the oven.

"Never a dull moment," Carol sighed.

* * *

Almost an hour later and Merle still hadn't arrived. Daryl sat at the kitchen table with Crowley, Jackson and Randall. The silverware jangled in time with the impatient tapping of his fingers on the polished wood. Merle was never late like this, especially to a meeting  _he'd_  called. Not for booze, not a skirt, nothing except a call from the old man himself could divert Merle.  _Somethin's wrong...again._

Randall was on his third beer in an hour, more concerned with the piles of food growing cold on the table than anything else.  _Fuckin' screwball._  He really needed to talk to Merle about having Randall transferred. Hell, maybe they needed to just get rid of the chump once and for all. Jackson's parrot wasn't doing them any good and Daryl didn't see a whole lot of growth potential in the kid.  _Fuck sake, even Rhee would be better than a chisler like Randall._  Now there was a thought worth a chuckle or two, but even that couldn't get Daryl to break.

_Where the hell was Merle?_

"Fuck this. I'm eating," Jackson announced sullenly. He grabbed the largest piece of chicken from the platter and bit down, crunching through the thick fried skin and letting the juice from the tender meat drip down his chin as he glared defiantly at Daryl across the table.  _Uppity-assed motherfucker._

Daryl realized he was clenching the table knife in his fist, the thick loops and swirls from the Francis the First pattern digging into his palm. His jaw was locked so tight it was starting to make his head hurt. He had a vision of himself, leaping across the table and sliding the knife across Jackson's throat. Oh, it would go so easy, like butter, with Jackson's blood spilling on the table all hot and sticky, that idiot expression frozen permanently on his smarmy face. Merle would be pissed and he'd have to buy Carol new placemats, but he didn't think she'd mind so much. The vision danced through his head, clear a picture, for about five seconds while he sat frozen in his chair, his face and posture a perfect mask of indifference.  _Breathe._

There were rules in place for this. Protocols. He knew them backwards and forwards. Merle…  _Christ._  Daryl leaned to his left to speak quietly in Crowley's ear.

"I'm makin' the call." Daryl pushed his chair back and stood, nodding to Randall, who was half slumped over the table as tipped his bottle end over end, his mouth opened wide as he laughed, trying to catch drops of beer like a child catching snowflakes. "Cut him off, will ya? Whatever it takes." Crowley said nothing, just nodded as Daryl strode quickly from the room.

He stopped by the kitchen door, listening to the gentle clink and clatter of Carol moving around. He dismissed the idea of asking her if she'd heard from Merle at all; she was good at passing along messages and she'd have told him by now if there was anything to tell. The sound of her minding her tasks were… comforting.

There was something in the air, something that had the hairs on the backs of his arms standing up. It had him on high alert, his fingers twitching for the cold comfort of his gun, but it was in his jacket pocket, hanging on the rack in the hall.  _Simmer down, boy. First things first._

He made his way to the parlor, sliding the glass door shut behind him. He settled himself into the worn armchair, the old leather weathered over time to be soft as kid gloves. The old 1920's coin-operated phone had been replaced by a sleek, black rotary dial at Merle's insistence. It was close to eight, which meant the old man would be home. He had the number that would link him to Greene's palatial estate half-dialed when he heard the low  _thunk-thunk_  of someone knocking at the front door.  _The hell… No. This ain't right._

Daryl slammed the receiver down and leapt to his feet, Carol was already halfway down the hall. Daryl reached over and flicked the light switch, dousing them both in darkness. He was on her before she could turn, his hand hovering over her mouth to muffle her startled cry as he met her eyes and held a finger to his lips. He grasped her elbow and gently pulled her with him to the coat rack. Her eyes grew wide as he pulled out his Colt, flicking the safety off and sliding the barrel to check the chamber.

"Daryl?" Carol whispered, her voice trembling at the sight. He gently pulled her to him by a handful of her thick curls, leaning down to whisper in her ear. He could smell the light, floral scent of her soap underneath the heavier flavors of fried chicken and biscuits.

"Trust me."

Daryl felt her nod. He pushed her to the door and waited in the shadows, his gun ready. To her credit, her hand was steady on the knob, her posture relaxed and her face calm as she pulled the door open.  _Good girl._  The door swung wide and a figure fell across the threshold, forcing Carol to leap backwards.

" _Merle?!_ "

Daryl dropped to his knees, roughly turning the figure on the floor to his back and staring with shock into the slack, gray-tinged face of his older brother. Merle was gasping for breath, his eyes bloodshot as he gestured weakly towards his shoulder. He could make out the thick, dark stain of blood seeping through Merle's clothes. Daryl didn't think as the orders came barking out of his mouth, yelling at Carol to get the door and hollering for the others as he hefted Merle to his feet, throwing a limp arm over his shoulders to brace his brother's weight as they made their way into the living room.

Crowley and Jackson were suddenly there, taking some of Merle's weight and helping to get him settled on the couch.

"Carol!" Daryl called. He looked over his shoulder to see her in the entryway, so pale yet steady on her feet, watching them with a hand pressed to her stomach. "Call Emerson-four-seven-seven-nine. Doc Lassiter. Tell him you're calling for Daryl Dixon, give him your address and  _nothing else_. Right now."

She was gone in a flash, the click of her heels echoing down the hall. Jackson was shutting the heavy drapes, offering them as much cover as the house could provide. Daryl turned to Crowley as together they tore at Merle's clothes, the thick woolen trench coat and the soft jacket of his blood-soaked bespoke suit.

"Where's Randall?"

"Plastered," Crowley muttered. "Passed out under the table."

"Leave him," Daryl ordered tersely. "Goddamn."

The gunshot wound was deep in the meat of Merle's left shoulder. Blood gushed from the entry point in a steady stream. Daryl pulled at Merle, leaning over to check his back. The shirt there was clean and crisp white cotton.

"No exit," Daryl muttered. Merle was gasping, grasping at Daryl and his mouth worked, trying to form words through the pain. Daryl pressed his hand against Merle's cheek, forcing his brother to meet his eyes. "Merle, just breathe. It's gonna be ok."

"He isn't home." Carol was back, her voice low and even behind Daryl. He didn't look at her, focused on Merle as he pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and applied pressure to the wound. "The doctor, I spoke with his wife. She said he was at Hershel Greene's house."

" _What?!_ "

Carol was talking, explaining, but it was a haze of white noise in Daryl's ears, muffled by a single thought:  _the doctor wasn't coming_. Merle was shot, bleeding out before his eyes and for the first time in longer than he could remember, Daryl didn't know what to do. This wasn't some stranger or even his boss, this was Merle. Merle, who taught him how to throw a punch, gave him his first drink, showed him how to drive and talked to him about girls. Merle, who looked out for him and always had his back.  _Merle_.  _His big brother Merle_. He suddenly felt like the lost little kid he'd been, years ago, when he couldn't see anything beyond his father's belt coming at him.

He could hear Merle's voice in his mind.  _Do. Not. Panic. Think._  Daryl shook his head, trying to bring himself back to the chaos erupting before him.  _It's just a job._ They were looking to him, counting on  _him_. Waiting for _his_  orders. It was his show. _Do the job._ Merle was still mouthing something, a single word over and over, desperate to make them understand. Daryl watched his lips. Slowly it came to him as Merle gasped.

" _Followed_."

Daryl's mind raced through the options. Crowley was sharper, faster with his gun. Jackson was the better driver, not to mention he got on Daryl's nerves a lot faster. Like he was now, just  _standing_  there by the windows with an expression that could be amused. Daryl's blood boiled.  _Get him out of here._  Carol was gone, vanished to who knows where, which gave Daryl the chance to speak freely.

"Merle may have been followed here," Daryl spat. "Check the roads, Jackson."

"You want them alive?"

" _Hell_  no."

"Yes," Crowley said at the same time. He arched an eyebrow at Daryl as he spoke again. "Yes. Hurt them if you have to, but keep them alive. The warehouse on Fifth. Call us if you find them."

Jackson nodded, reaching behind the wet bar to pull out a long black case. He opened it and revealed a Thompson submachine gun, which he laid across his shoulder as he gathered the extra clips with his other hand. With a nod and a wink, Jackson was gone.  _Smug bastard._  For once, Daryl half hoped that Jackson didn't follow orders and killed the sons of bitches that shot his brother.

"What the fuck do we do now?"

Crowley was hunched next to him, steadying Merle by his shoulders as the injured man's shuddered with a sudden spout of deep, hacking coughs. Blood pulsed from the wound with each cough, the cloth and into Daryl's hands useless now.  _This is bad. This is so bad._ His control was fraying, slipping away and he was helpless to stop it.

"No idea," Crowley admitted. "I put bullets  _in_  people. I've never had to pull them out before."

"First time for everything?" Daryl grimaced at the thought of performing surgery here on the sofa, but suddenly Carol was there, pushing him out of the way with a determined look on her face, her arms laden with a huge stack of bowls and cloth, a black bag under her arm.

"I need more light," she said grimly as she threw her supplies down on the parlor table.

"The hell are you doing?!" Anger flared in him and he realized his hand was raised, ready to strike when she pinned him with a glare that was fire and ice all at once.

"I know how to fix your brother," she said firmly. "Now do what I tell you to and  _get me more light_." She shot this last over her shoulder at Crowley, who moved at once, grabbing every lamp in the room, pulling off the shades to fill the room with brilliant light as Carol got her supplies organized. Bowls of water, stacks of linens, thread, needles and silver tools that gleamed in the light.

"You know how to do this?" Daryl asked in shock.

"Yes." Carol's reply was short, her manner cool despite the paleness of her face.

"How-"

"In a minute," Carol said. "Is it through and through?"

"No." It was Crowley who answered, coming back to hover at Merle's other side. "It's still in there."

"All right." Carol was up, gently pushing Daryl off to the side. "I need to see it. Thom, hold that lamp up here. Daryl, just sit here a minute." She gently pried his hands from the wound on Merle's shoulder, her fingers warm and steady over his. "Daryl, it's all right. Let me see him."

He finally lifted his hands and blanched at the amount of blood that seemed to keep coming out of Merle. Carol was poking at the wound, pulling lightly at the edges and ignoring the groan of pain Merle gave.

"I know it hurts, Merle." Low and soothing, almost crooning. He knew she was focused on Merle but the tone of her voice was calming his nerves as well. "I just need to see… There. I can see it."

She reached behind her to rummage around her tools. Linens and a small glass bowl were shoved into Daryl's hands.

"Hold those," she ordered. Carol climbed up to straddle Merle's leg, pushing on his chest to lay his shoulders flat against the back of the sofa. Daryl felt his eyebrows rise almost to his hairline as she took Merle's right hand and placed it on her hip.  _Did I miss something?_  "Merle, enjoy this, because you'll never get me this close again."

Incredibly, Merle was  _smiling_ , snorting a laugh that turned into another bout of wheezing, deep coughs that tugged at Daryl's stomach.

"Thom, one hand on his shoulder but keep that lamp raised right there. Daryl, put your hand here," she pointed to Merle's upper arm, "and stay by me. Merle, bite down on this." She shoved a rag into Merle's mouth. "One, two, three."

Daryl pushed down as hard as he could as Merle jerked and screamed through the cloth in his mouth. Carol was digging into the gunshot wound, pushing down on Merle's chest with her elbow and letting the weight of her lock Merle's legs in place.

"I know, I know. Almost there," Carol mumbled softly. Her hands were so steady, so sure as she worked. Not a hint of nervousness or uncertainty anywhere, just cool, calm  _control_.

 _Clink. Clink._  Daryl looked down into the bowl in his hand to see two large pieces of shrapnel, rough and bloody; the remains of the bullet.  _She actually knows what she's doing. Son of a bitch._

"One more, Merle," Carol said softly. "Almost there." She was digging deep, Daryl could tell, and her hands were red with Merle's blood. It was everywhere, on Merle, the couch, Carol. Merle was growing whiter by the second as his head fell back against the sofa, his eyes falling shut.

"What's wrong with him?" Daryl didn't recognize his own voice, high pitched and panicky.

"He passed out," Carol replied as she tore the rag from Merle's mouth, throwing it over her shoulder without a second glance. "I just need to get this last one."  _Come on, one more._

_Clink._

Carol sighed as she dropped the last shard into the bowl. She grabbed the lamp from Crowley and pulled it as close to the wound as she could, the cord stretching with an audible squeak as the wire pulled tight.

"OK," Carol said softly. Daryl wondered if she was talking more to herself at this point, feeling like nothing more than a spectator. "No major arteries. Clean, pack, stitch." She shoved the lamp back into Crowley's hands and quickly ran her hands across her face, muttering so low Daryl couldn't make out her words anymore.  _Definitely talking to herself._

She moved fast, pulling supplies from Daryl's hands or reaching behind her to grab from the supplies. Daryl sank down to the sofa, watching her work at saving Merle's life. It didn't make sense. Carol  _hated_  Merle.  _Why is she doing this?_

"He's going to need blood."  _Shit, she's looking at me. What?_

"Daryl," she said urgently. "Merle needs blood. I don't have the supplies for a transfusion. He still needs a doctor."

_Fuck. Think, think,_ _**think** _ _._

"Go call the old man," Daryl finally said. He looked at Crowley, summoning every ounce of willpower he had to work his face back into some semblance of his normal self. "See why the doc is there, get him here if possible."

"And if I can't?" Crowley asked.

"I'll think of something," Daryl said. "Go!"

He had no idea how long he sat there while Carol played doctor, her hands a flurry of activity that belied the calm exterior she portrayed. A curly tendril of her hair had worked itself free from its pins and was in her face. He wasn't sure she'd even noticed, but as the minutes ticked away it was all he could see. He couldn't stop his hand from reaching out to tuck the lock of hair behind her ear, a small piece of him thrilling at the silky feel of the auburn strands. Carol didn't respond, her hands working at smearing a thick poultice on a folded scrap of linen and pasting that onto Merle's shoulder. Finally her hands stilled and she sat back with a groan, rolling her head so Daryl could hear the joints in her neck pop.

"I think that's all I can do for now," Carol said, looking at Daryl. She wiped her hands clean on a towel and ran her arm across her forehead, rubbing away the beads of sweat Daryl could now see had formed. Her hand brushed against Daryl's knee as she reached for Merle's wrist. "His pulse is a little slow, but steady. That's good."

_He's alive._

Daryl let the last of his supplies fall from his arms, reaching out to help Carol as she pushed herself off of Merle. He pulled her closer than he should have, keeping her hands in his. She blazed with a strange glow, all fierce confidence that blew him away.

"Ya all right?" he asked softly. He barely noticed his thumb tripping along the soft skin on the underside of her wrist.

"Me?" Carol almost laughed. "Merle's been shot and you're asking if  _I'm_  ok?" He felt himself giving her a tiny grin as the absurdity of his question sank in.

"Doc's on his way." Crowley was back, standing on the other side of the table with an incredulous expression pointed at their joined hands. "Old man's fine. Lil' girl Greene had herself a fever so they called Doc Lassiter. T's bringin' him over now. You need to call him back, Daryl."

"Yeah, ok." Daryl sighed, running his hand through his hair. He felt like he'd aged a hundred years in the past hour.

"Get Merle upstairs first," Carol said. "He'll do better in a bed."

Daryl nodded, gesturing to Crowley as he moved back to his brother's side.  _He's alive._  It bounced around in his mind as they hefted Merle's bulk to his room. _He's alive because of Carol._

_Why did she help him?_

* * *

Carol waited for the men carrying Merle to disappear upstairs before allowing her knees to give out, sinking down to rest on the parlor table. She buried her face in her hands with a moan, her fingers tangling in her hair and wrenching her curls free from their pins. Her hip ached where Merle had clenched down on her as she'd worked to remove the bullet fragments from his shoulder and she knew she'd have bruises to show for her efforts.

"Holy shit," she whispered. "Holy shit, holy shit,  _holy shit_."

She hadn't stitched a bullet wound since she was a teenager, some shylock who had 'just been passing through' and found himself on the wrong end of a farmer's shotgun as he tried to crawl in through a bedroom window.

Her father had stitched up the farmer's wife.

She'd been able to hear his voice in her ear as she worked, the sound of his long slow drawl bittersweet as he rattled off the steps she needed to take to do what she could to save Merle's life.  _Oh Daddy, what would you say if you could see me now?_

She was soaked in blood, sticky and tacky all over her skin, her hair, her dress. It had even dripped onto her shoes, dark spots along the cream suede. She slowly slid her feet free, one after the other, and ran her stockinged feet along the rough fibers. There was so much blood  _everywhere_ , along the couch and puddled along the weathered carpet. It was ruined,  _they_  were ruined: the sofa and rug both. Her shoes and stockings. Her dress, from the feel of things, although she was afraid to look. She just kept staring, instead, at the stains that filled her vision until they were all she  _could_  see.

Shelter. Food. Housekeeping. Laundry.  _Cover_. The five things Carol was supposed to provide under the terms of her contract with Hershel Greene. In her wildest dreams and worst nightmares, she'd never envisioned having to patch up a mobster in her parlor.  _How did it come to this?_

A hand fell on her shoulder and she jumped, spinning around and putting as much space between herself and the other as she could. It was Jackson, of all people, and she felt her flesh crawl.

"I thought you left," she said flatly.

"I did," Jackson replied with an arched eyebrow. "But I got back over an hour ago."

Carol turned to the grandfather clock that loomed in the far corner of the room to see that two hours had passed since Daryl and Crowley had taken Merle upstairs.  _Two whole hours_  she'd sat in a daze in her ruined parlor while who knows what happened around her.  _This isn't good._

"I have to go clean up dinner," Carol said suddenly. It was as good an excuse as any to get out of this room, away from Jackson and that lecherous leer. "Excuse me."

She spun on her heel and bolted for the dining room as quickly as she could. The food was still laid out for dinner, but half the table was a wreck, beer bottles everywhere, half eaten biscuits scattered all over and the pitcher of lemonade spilled over and soaked into the wood, the place mats ruined. Randall was curled on the floor, lemonade dripping onto his head while he snored, an empty beer bottle wrapped in his hands like it was a teddy bear.

"Moron," Carol muttered as she started clearing the table. She made her way into the kitchen, slamming the dishes onto the counter. It took her a few trips to get everything cleaned up. She debated calling one of them to get Randall, but she could hear the rumbles of the men talking upstairs when she poked her head in the hall and decided to leave it. Randall could stay where he was, as far as she was concerned.

She could smell the blood, the iron tang of if permeating the whole of the house. She grabbed at the sink, clenching her fingers tight on the porcelain in an effort not to faint. She didn't want to think, the delayed shock tickling at the edges of her consciousness.  _Nonono. Just keep moving._   _Something monotonous, that's the ticket._ Carol ran across the room, flicking the needle of the record player down and turning the volume up as high as it would go. She had no idea what was playing, couldn't remember what she'd had on while she'd been eating her dinner hours ago. She just needed something, anything, to help crowd out the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm her.

_Just keep moving, Carol._

* * *

Daryl leaned back in the chair with a sigh. His arm ached and he pressed down on the fresh bandage wrapped around his elbow. The blood transfusion was finished and now he was feeling faintly dizzy. Merle was stretched out on his bed, the blankets they'd piled on him pushed aside as Dr. Lassiter inspected the gunshot wound. Crowley was leaning against the dresser, his face drawn and tired, as Theodore Douglas lurked in the doorway.

"Where's Jackson?"

"Here." The man in question poked his head in the door, looking smug about something Daryl was pretty sure he didn't have the patience to deal with.

"It'll be easier if we can move him to the Hibernian," Dr. Lassiter said as he replaced the bandage on Merle's shoulder. "I can keep a better eye on him there."

Caleb Lassiter had been a hotshot physician in New York City before being run out of town after he was caught performing illegal abortions on the unfortunate ladies under the thumb of Lucky Luciano. He'd run south, come across Hershel Greene and now enjoyed the perks of being on Hershel's payroll. He lived in the Hibernian, one of the hotel's permanent residents. His sole responsibility was the welfare of Greene's men and family. By all accounts, he spent most of his time gambling at the hotel's basement casino. Daryl didn't quite trust him, but he was the best option they had. Taking Merle to the hospital was out of the question.

"How bad is it?" God help him, he almost didn't want to know.

"It could be worse," the doctor replied. "Your landlady does terrific work. Was she a nurse?"

"I… have no idea," Daryl laughed. It was one of the many things he planned on discussing with Carol very soon.

"Well, she's clearly had some measure of training. It was very close. Without her, Merle would be dead by now."

"Oh…" Daryl couldn't think of a single thing to say in the face of just how close his brother had come to dying on that couch. "I… need to make some calls. Everyone just sit tight up here for a bit." Daryl pushed his way out of the room and down the stairs, desperate for air but tasting only the sharp iron of spilled blood. He poked his head into the parlor and immediately turned away, his stomach churning at the mess inside.  _Not yet._

Jackson had reported the roads were empty, no signs of anyone else in the five mile stretch between Carol's house and the edges of suburban Atlanta. He did report signs of tire burns about three miles out, possible signs of a car chase, but it would be impossible to confirm the details before the sun came up. Even then, until Merle woke up they were completely in the dark. He needed to think, he needed air, he needed…

Daryl turned and made his way down the hall on quiet feet, stopping just outside the kitchen door. He could tell the lights were on and could hear the sounds of Carol puttering around inside. It was ludicrous, but he had an idea that just the sight of her would be enough to soothe the rage inside of him. He pushed his way inside the kitchen and froze, realizing quickly the scene inside was not the haven he'd imagined it would be.

She must have had music going at some point, probably while she'd been cleaning dinner. In all the chaos, she must have forgotten the record player. He could hear the  _scritch-scritch-scritch_  of the needle spinning ceaselessly at the end of the disk.

He needed to go upstairs, go check on Merle. There were people to call, orders to be given, arrangements made. A list of a hundred things to be done and he was standing here like some chump.

The kitchen lights seemed too bright, glaring like an indoor sun. Carol was at the sink, her back to him as she dropped each dish, one by one, into the sink full of water. Colors seemed overly bright to him, his eyes catching first the delicate blue on white pattern of the china, following a plate on its path to the sink only to find the rainbows reflected in the slippery bubbles frothing over the rim as the water level rose with each new offering. He followed the sweet cream of skin up Carol's arm to the swirls of auburn, chestnut, rust and even threads of grey weaved together in the tumble of curls cascading down her back, so vivid against the pale yellow of her dress. Edges blurred, his vision going slightly fuzzy until all Daryl could see was dark spots dancing against the backdrop of brightly swirled colors and his ears shut down until all he could hear was the never-ending  _scritch-scritch-scritch_. Everything was muted, like his ears were full of water. Everything except that maddening sound of the needle scratching heedlessly on black vinyl that grew louder with every second.

_Scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch._

He was going to be sick.

His chest heaved and his face flushed, bile bubbling up inside him, and just as he bent, ready to splatter the contents on his stomach onto the gleaming tile floor, something caught his eye that brought everything into sharp focus.

Carol didn't have shoes on.

He could just make out the faint shimmer of light on the thin fabric of her stockings, but she wasn't wearing shoes. She  _always_  wore shoes in the house, was never less than perfectly put together in front of them. This one thing, so insignificant in the face of everything else that had gone wrong, was enough to tip Daryl back over the edge into something resembling sanity. He straightened, swallowing down the tart slime that had lodged itself in his throat and breathing deep through his nose.

Control.  _Find it, grab it,_ _ **use**_ _it._ Daryl reached out with a shaking hand to grasp the door frame to steady himself. He kept his breathing slow, counting to four with each inhale and repeating the process as he exhaled. He watched Carol while he breathed as she slowly and methodically washed the dishes, setting each item on the rack to drip dry while she washed the rest. It took him a while, but he let the ritual actions of Carol cleaning soothe him as his pulse settled back into its normal rhythm. Finally he found his feet, taking measured steps across the room and lifting the needle.  _Scritch-scri-_... The silence seemed louder than anything else. It was enough to jerk Carol's focus from her task. She peered over her shoulder at him, her eyes huge and glassy in her pale face as her hands stilled in the water.

The silence stretched out between them, long and heavy with so many things he couldn't put a name to that it made his chest ache. She was waiting on him but he couldn't find words, his control enough to get him moving but not speaking, apparently. For once in his life, Daryl  _wanted_  to speak, only his tongue had turned traitor. Without a sound, Carol turned her head back to her task, the only noises now the gentle clink and splash of dishes being cleaned.

That got him.

"Carol." Daryl's voice was soft, cautious, like he was approaching a fawn in the woods. She didn't answer him, didn't even dip her head to acknowledge he was in the room with her. He strode over to the counter next to her and finally realized how dire the situation was. The front of her pretty yellow dress was matted and tacky with huge splashes of blood. Splotches of blood dotted the fine mesh of her stockinged legs down to her ankles.  _Merle's_  blood.  _Christ on a cracker._ She was pale,  _so_  pale, but her hands were steady as she took a sopping rag to a fork, tending to each individual tine with infinite care. She was calm, in control, but only just. He decided to try again. " _Carol_ -"

"Don't." It was barely more than a whisper, yet sharper than a slug to the gut. Her voice was even, firm, but he didn't think she was actually angry. This was something else. "Just… don't."

He had a hundred other things that he could do right now, things he _needed_  to do. He needed to get in touch with Greene, make arrangements with the aldermen who reported to Merle. He needed to talk to Morgan at the Hibernian, confirm the reroute the shipments coming from Mexico. There were a dozen things he needed to delegate to the boys, from checking the rackets to getting Randall's sorry ass up and sober. With Merle down for the count, it was his show until the old man could take the reins again. The whole world was waiting. Carol could finish cleaning up.

Daryl snagged a dry towel from the rack on the wall and set to work drying the dishes.

He could see her watching him from the corner of her eye, just like he was watching her. They worked in tandem, her washing and him drying until she was done, pulling the plug in the sink so the soapy water could drain with a loud, long squick. She moved to his other side, stacking plates and cutlery in an orderly fashion. They moved around each other in the kitchen, stowing items away like they'd been doing it for a hundred years. It was calming, peaceful, and utterly ridiculous.

He turned to grab the last glass from the counter, not realizing that Carol had reached for it a millisecond earlier. His fingers brushed over hers and he felt the electric crackle of pure wanting zip down his spine. She gasped and let the glass slip from her grasp. It hit the tile with a crash, shards of glass scattering around their feet. Neither of them moved, less than a foot of space between them as they stared at each other, their fingers still loosely tangled together between them.

"I should-"

"No," Daryl said quietly, urgently. " _No._ " His free hand snapped out to paw at her hip, holding her still.  _Don't walk away from me. Not now._ "You'll cut your feet."

He was moving before he could think, reaching down to sweep her into his arms, one arm tucked under her knees while the other cradled her back. She didn't speak, didn't move other than to let her hands hover above his chest. She just kept her wide blue eyes trained on his face as he carried her to the round kitchen table. He set her down as gently as he could, perching her on the end of the table before he straightened in front of her.

"It's ok. It's my job."

"No. I'll do it."

"But-"

"I'll do it. Don't get up."

Daryl moved swiftly, pulling the broom out from the cupboard and sweeping carefully, making sure he caught even the tiniest shards of glass. He tried not to think about why he was doing this, tried to ignore the pull in his gut, the realization that he would take on any burden, no matter how large or small, to keep Carol from harm. He could feel her eyes on him. As a man who had made a life out of staying unnoticed, it was a revelation to find that he welcomed Carol's attention, the idea of her  _seeing_  him.

He  _wanted_  her to see him.

He made sure everything was cleared and put back in its place. Carol was still sitting on the table, her hand folded in the lap of her bloody dress. He surprised both of them by reaching out to grasp her ankles, lifting her legs to inspect her feet in their torn, soiled stockings.

"Get any on ya?" he asked softly.

"No," Carol answered carefully. "I'm all right."

He let her legs drop and stood before her, holding his hands out to her with his palms up. He wasn't sure what he was offering.

There were fifteen hundred things he wanted to say, was  _desperate_  to say. He wanted to tell her how sorry he was about all of this, about everything. He wanted to thank her for saving his brother's life, for taking charge in the moment when sheer panic had threatened to overwhelm him. For fuck's sake, all his years of training for these situations had been as useful as a cold; the prospect of his brother dying on Carol Peletier's sofa had sent him spinning out of control like a rookie his first time at bat. He'd faltered, stumbled,  _failed_. She'd been brilliant.  _Absolutely fucking_   _brilliant_. He'd seen the full force of the steel core that must have held her together all these years with that worthless sumbitch she'd married. It left him humbled and in awe.

He wanted to ask about her father, about the things she'd learned at his knee. He wanted to hear about her family, about what she liked, what she didn't, her hopes and dreams. Four months of living with Carol and he realized he knew so little about who she was beyond "Mrs. Peletier"... and he  _loathed_  it. He wanted to know everything about her. He wanted to listen to her sweet voice talking about her day, telling him stories, even when she was putting him in his place. God Almighty, she could put him anywhere she wanted. The thought didn't frighten him half as much as it should have.

He had no idea how long he'd stood there like a fool, with his hands extended to her, before she finally slid from the table to stand on her own two feet. She ignored his outstretched hands, didn't reach for him at all and the crushing blow of disappointment felt like a physical blow, forcing his hands to drop limping at his sides. He jammed them into his pockets so she wouldn't see. She wasn't looking anymore; she was moving past him, across the kitchen to the dark little hallway that lead to her small rooms. She paused in the doorway, pale, bloodstained and weary, turning to look back where she'd left him in her wake.

He'd never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life.

"Don't you have a job to do, Daryl Dixon? Go play your role now. They're waiting on you."

 _God_. It was  _sadness_  that tinted her voice and it made his fists clench where they hid in his pockets. His voice died, useless again, on his tongue as she turned and left him standing bereft and lonely in the big kitchen.

She was right. He had a job to do, a role to play. He hated himself as he turned and clicked the lights off, plunging the kitchen into darkness. He didn't need the light to find his way. He moved in the shadows.

* * *

_**A/N:** Now that's what I call a rough day! ;)_

_**"** Go raibh maith agat" is Irish Gaelic for 'thank you'. I'm running with the idea that most of the members of the gang are Irish-American and can speak a few key phrases here and there, but that's it.  
_ _"Going to the mattresses" is an expression used when a gang went to war with a rival. You'll see it explained better later on.  
_ _"Tomato" - woman  
_ _"Gams" - a woman's legs_


	13. Sticks and Stones

_**A/N:** Why, looky here at what I managed to finish writing? Thanks to my girls Sanja  & meeshie for the extra help getting me unstuck. I hope you enjoy! Reviews would be greatly appreciated._

* * *

**Chapter 13: Sticks and Stones**

Carol couldn't sleep. She lay stretched out on her bed in her lace and silk slip, the blankets thrown aside as even the lightest fabric was too much for her overheated skin. She'd scrubbed herself nearly raw in the shower, washed her hair twice to make sure every spot of blood had been swept away in a cascade of water and soap. The clothes she'd had on now lay in a heap in a corner of her bathroom. There would be no saving them.

When the sun came up, she'd take them to the compost heap and burn them.

There could have been,  _should_ have been, a hundred different scenes playing in her head: the morning banter as she served breakfast, Randall drunk under the table, Merle bleeding out on her sofa. Instead, the images that tumbled over and over in her head was Daryl in her kitchen, standing before her pale and disheveled with his arms outstretched. Reaching for her, palms up. As if he was  _offering_  her something...

Her skin itched as she shifted, uncomfortable and restless, until she finally couldn't take anymore. She shoved herself off the bed, snatching up her thin cotton robe and pulling it around her.

She needed a drink.

* * *

"Yes, sir. I understand. Thank you, sir." Daryl hung up the phone and sat back in Merle's desk chair with a sigh, rubbing his tired eyes. It was almost four o'clock in the morning. He'd been wheeling and dealing for hours, working to ensure the wheels of Greene's operation didn't stop turning. The old man himself was a ball of fury, barking orders and questions for hours that Daryl has scrambled to take care of. The old man was not one to tolerate failure and Daryl knew from the tone of voice on the other end of the line that they'd all escaped tonight by the skin of their teeth. Merle had come in and out of consciousness a few times, babbling orders in a wheezy voice that Daryl had dutifully sent down the line.

Daryl turned to look at his brother, all bandaged up and pale against the white sheets of his bed. It was the first time in Merle's long career in Atlanta's criminal underworld that he'd come so close to death. He'd been shot before; Daryl knew that there was a long scar on the meat of Merle's upper arm, the result of a graze from a wayward bullet fired by a member of Merle's squad. That had been a year or so before Daryl joined the ranks. He had no idea who had fire the shot and all anybody else would tell him is they never saw the dope again.

Well, he supposed he knew after all.

Daryl wasn't a dummy. Merle put on the act of loving Hershel Greene like a father, but Daryl knew his brother, and he knew it was just that: an act.  _Bupkis._  He knew Merle had plans, _big_  plans that he'd been working at for years, like a spider spinning the most intricate of webs. For the first time, he found himself wondering just what Merle was willing to pay for those plans to come to fruition. If there was anything his brother  _wouldn't_  sacrifice.

He was suddenly cold, his skin flush with goose bumps.

He wasn't sure he wanted to think about it.

"I need a fuckin' drink," Daryl muttered. He needed more than that. He needed air, space, away from his brother and the awful thoughts that rang through his head like a death knell.

He made his way downstairs and was half turned towards the parlor, with the wet bar calling his name, when he caught sight of a flicker of light just visible beneath the edge of the kitchen door.  _Oh._ He tried to ignore the skip of his heart at the thought.

 _Walk away._  It was Merle's voice, that low warning drawl, that echoed in his head.

Daryl knew he was in trouble. Carol threw him sideway, spun him end over end and sent him spiraling into a place he didn't know how to navigate. She was a hell of a dame and he  _ached_  for her, in ways he barely understood. She was his magnet and he was helpless to resist the pull of her.

_Walk away and give the lady her space._

Daryl sighed and moved, already knowing he was in too deep to walk away.

He pushed open the kitchen door. The room was dark, lit only by the flickering flame of a candle set in the middle of the round table. Carol sat in one of the wooden chairs with her legs curled up under her like a cat, one of the china cups from her mismatched tea set in her hand as she stared at the dancing candlelight. He couldn't tear his gaze away from the long curve of her slender legs and the gorgeous expanse of creamy skin exposed to her upper thigh, where the bits of lace peeking past the hem of her robe was enough to make him light headed as all the blood in his head rushed south.

Good God, he wanted her. He wanted her more than anyone he could ever recall wanting anyone. He was  _shaking_  with it.

_Down, boy. Now's not the time._

He finally dragged his eyes up from those luscious legs to see Carol was watching him. She hadn't moved an inch since he came into the room except to tick her eyes to his face. He had no idea how long she'd been watching him ogle her like some kind of sucker. He felt his face flush and rubbed at the back of his neck as the silence turned awkward.

"So… I, uh…"  _Oh for fuck's sake, boy, stop jabbering already._  "Are you all right?"

Carol didn't answer him. She just blinked, once, before turning her eyes back to the candle. Daryl winced, knowing instantly that had been the wrong thing to ask. She made no move to look at him or even acknowledge he was in the room, leaving him more unsure than he could remember feeling in a long time. He was afraid to move as the minutes stretched out, standing in the same spot and resisting the urge to shuffle his feet like a little boy until he couldn't take anymore. He grabbed a china cup at random and took the chair on Carol's left. One touch of the teapot and he knew the tea itself would be too cold to drink.

"How long ya been sittin' down here?"

Nothing. Just another slow blink at the tiny flickering light.  _This isn't good._  He knew she had every right to be upset, to be angry as hell. He wanted her to look at him; hell, he wanted her to shout, to finally let loose and show him a spark of the fire that usually burned inside of her.  _Anything_ , except this ice queen wearing Carol's face sitting next to him.  _You did this._

"Carol…" Daryl swallowed back the sour sensation that had risen in his throat. "I'm so-"

"Daryl," Carol interrupted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I swear to God, if the words ' _I'm sorry_ ' come out of your mouth, I will throw my tea in your face."

 _Oh yeah. Madder than a wet hen._  Daryl sighed and rubbed at his tired, burning eyes. He couldn't help himself, the words pouring out of his mouth in a desperate attempt to make her understand, to make her  _see_  him again.

"I  _am_ , though… I'm so sor-"

He was cut off by the slosh of cold tea hitting him square in the face. It was in his eyes, up his nose. He could feel it dripping down his chin to further stain the collar of his already soiled shirt. It took him a long minute to blink the thick liquid from his eyes.

"Did you just-"

"I did warn you."

"Carol-"

" _No_." She was up, the chair sliding across the floor with a screech. "You don't get to just ' _Carol_ ' at me and expect it to be all right."

_Well, you wanted her to shout._

He could feel the rage pouring off of her now, whatever walls that had been shoring up the cold mask crumbling before his eyes. Her face was suddenly flush with splotches of bright red as her eyes blazed at him. His tongue lodged in his throat at the sight of her.

"Mere was shot.  _Shot_ , Daryl!"

"I know-"

"His blood is all over my living room!"

"And I'm  _sorry_ -" She cut him off again and the fact she wasn't letting him speak was starting to grate on his last remaining nerve.

"Don't be  _sorry_ ," Carol yelled. "I don't give a  _fuck_  about your  _sorry_."

"Then what do you  _want_?" Daryl was trying and failing to curb the tide of anger rising up in him.  _This isn't my fault_. "I'm tryin' to explain here-"

"I don't care!"

"What do you want me to  _say_?" He was yelling now as much as she was.

"I don't  _want_ you to say anything! I didn't  _ask_  you to say  _anything_!"

"God  _dammit_ , Carol!" His fist slammed down on the table, rattling the china and knocking over the teapot. Cold tea spilled out, seeping into the wood. Her eyes widened and he caught the ghost of something dark skim across her face before she was able to swallow it back down. It looks like fear, an old fear, and the realization that it may have been the look she wore when Ed raised his fists only made him angrier.

"That what you think of me?" Daryl growled. "Think I'd lay a hand on ya like that? Like  _him_?"

"I don't know," she sighed exasperatedly. "I don't know what to expect from  _any_  of you."

"Then why'd you bother helpin' at all?! Nobody asked you to!" He didn't realize he'd leapt to his feet until he was already _there_ , standing before her with his fists clenched at his sides.

"What was I supposed to do?  _Let_ Merle bleed to death on the couch?" Carol cried. "How would we hide that from the police?"

"Don't ask questions ya don't want the answer to," Daryl snarled. For fuck's sake, she  _knew_ better.

"Fine," Carol scoffed dismissively. "Forget the police for a minute. What would Hershel Greene do to me if he found out I could have saved his best lieutenant and  _didn't_?"

_Oh. Oh fuck._

Daryl stood there with his mouth open, stunned to silence as horrific images started to filter through his mind, one after the other. He knew what could have happened to Carol if she'd chosen to stay hidden. What could have happened to  _all_  of them.

Merle was alive because of Carol. So were the rest of them.

He realized too late Carol was still yelling and that he'd missed a good chunk of her tirade.

"But I'm supposed to just  _deal_  with these things because that's my job now. To play my role in some  _ridiculous_  charade that I  _never_ signed up for. I didn't  _ask_  for this. I didn't ask for  _Ed_. I didn't ask to carry the weight of his mistakes but I'm here  _anyway_. I have to be. I didn't have a choice in the matter and do you remember who made sure I knew that?  _You_ , Daryl."

Rage bubbled up in him, thick and hot as bile, and he half-worried he was going to be sick even as he shouted back so hard he felt a pop in his throat as his vocal chords gave out.

" _O' course_ it was me!  _I was doin' my job!_ "

" _I know!_  You're not  _any_  better than the rest of them! You're just another thug with a gun."

_Hell no._

"Ya know what I think-"

"Children!"

Daryl turned the same time Carol did to see Crowley standing just inside the door.  _Fuck, oh fuck me. When did he get here?_  Crowley was eyeing them both with sharp disapproval.

"The pair of you yokels are louder than a tin man band on the fourth of July," Crowley said. "You even woke up the drugged gunshot victim upstairs. Care to explain?"

Carol spun on her heel and stormed off towards her room, slamming the door behind her so hard Daryl heard the wood creak.  _Goddammit._  Daryl pushed his way past Crowley, ignoring the muttered 'guess not' the other man left in his wake. He snatched his coat and fedora from the rack in the front entryway.

"Keep an eye on Merle," Daryl called over his shoulder. His gut was a twisting, writhing mess, turning his stomach to lead.  _She said… She actually thought… Seven hells._ "I need air."

_And a drink._


	14. Off the Wagon (Part One)

_**A/N:** I should comment on how long it's been since I updated this... my apologies. Writer's block is a bitch. A little encouragement would go a long way right now. Thank you for reading!_

* * *

 

**Chapter 14: Off The Wagon (Part One)**

"My pop used to say that whiskey, like a beautiful woman, demands appreciation." Shane Walsh twisted the heavy cut-glass tumbler in his hands, the amber liquid swishing and swirling back and forth in a sweet dance that made the blood in his veins zing. "You gaze first, and then…  _then_  you drink." He took a slow sip, the sweet burn of Jack Daniel's Old No. 7 warming him from the inside out better than any blanket ever could. He was sozzled, delightfully so, and relished the buzz of alcohol working inside him.

Dwyer's was a dive, little more than a speakeasy but with less class. Small and dark, with faded leftover art deco fixtures and full of nooks and crannies where one could engage in barely private conversation for a drink barely worth the cost, but it was familiar. Comfortable. A man could  _breathe_  here, without the fancy airs and graces of finer establishments like The Five O'Clock Club.

"That's... charming." She didn't sound amused.

Shane tipped his head back and drained his glass.

**_-12 hours earlier-_ **

"Someone's been burnin' the candle at both ends."

Shane groaned and pulled the brim of his worn fedora down further, wishing it could remove the silhouette of Rick Grimes from his vision.

"It's too damn early for this," he muttered. "Whaddya want?"

"How's the case going?" Rick shifted, blocking his path down the narrow sidewalk.

"Which one?" Shane asked with feigned nonchalance.

_Which one? That's the real kicker here._

"'Which one'?" Rick scoffed. "So that's the cavalier attitude shown by members of the Atlanta Police Department in a time of veritable warfare? ' _Which one_ '?"

"Lemme ask you somethin',  _Rick,_ " he snarled back. "How would _you_  answer the question? Assuming, of course, if you hadn't turned yellow and left us in the fuckin' lurch?"

He knew it was a low blow as the words spat from his mouth. Hell, if he was being honest, he knew it was cruel before he'd even begun to form the words, but knowing didn't prevent the hard knot of guilt that settled heavily in his stomach as Rick's face went pale.  _This man used to be your friend._

"I never abandoned you," Rick said angrily. "You're the one who abandoned me. We were supposed to be  _partners_. You stayed on the force for what? Booze? Money? Women?"

"Come on, man," Shane groaned. "You're talking like a nut here. You know the score and it's long past time you wised up."

"Like you did? How has that worked out for you, Shane?"

Shane couldn't find words to argue back as he watched Rick spin on his heel and storm off into the morning crowd.

The thing that gnawed at him was: Rick wasn't entirely wrong. When they'd started in Academy together, they'd both been idealistic, ready to conquer the world with truth, justice and a shiny badge. He'd realized fast though that police work wasn't like it was in the Dick Tracy strips they'd read as boys. The job was gritty and exhausting, the hours long and the pay lousy. After Rick up and married that uppity broad, he'd holed up in a single room pad that smelled of reefer and piss, with water that dripped through the ceiling.

Hardly the glamorous life he'd dreamed of. When his supervising officer mentioned an easy way to make some extra dough off the clock, Shane was sold. 'Just helping a buddy out', they'd said. Guilt had pulled at his stomach as he'd moved those unmarked crates, but when he received a fistful of cabbage for his trouble, all he could think of was being able to afford something besides canned beans, bread and cheap wino hooch.

One 'favor' became two, then another and another. Move this, see that person, drop this off at another place. Soon he was making more off the job than he was on, but the extra work was wearing him down. Days were stressful and he needed a hand to get through them. One drink before work turned into sneaking a drink or two on the job. Cheap hooch became Jim Beam and Jack Daniel's, warm and smoky pleasure that soothed his spirit until he wasn't sure how he'd ever survived without. He kept a flask in his coat pocket, a bottle in his desk and several at home. It was as essential to his being as air, that glowing amber nectar… until he crashed.

It was Dale who'd come, helped him dry out and get back on his feet. Dale, who'd been there every day since, with his crazy eyes, good intentions and moral integrity. Dale, who told him there was fulfillment to be found in being a good cop. So he lived Dale's way, sticking to the rules like a good boy and going along his beat as best he could, desperately searching for the fulfillment Dale had promised.

The road behind him was twisted and paved with dead chumps, petty thieves, two-bit hookers and battered housewives. Miles of paperwork, more and more unsolved cases quietly closed by his superiors or left to dust with no evidence to move them forward. There was no meaning of life to be found there. They were failing,  _miserably_ , in their current war against Hershel Greene. The road ahead looked bleak, long and lonely and  _empty_. He couldn't find any sense of completion in his future, even if he stuck to Dale's plan.

Shane was beginning to wonder if he was doing it wrong.

**_-Now-_ **

"Want another?" Shane plunked his empty glass down on the table and waved his arm at the bartender.

"I haven't started my first one."

"Oh." He looked, blinking for a minute to clear the blurriness from his vision and she was right; her glass sat before her untouched on the table, full of sweet whiskey that called out to him. "You should get on that before someone tries to steal it."

"Detective-"

" _Shane_. I told you. Just Shane right now."

A heavy sigh.

"Shane."

_God, that sounds good._

"Why am I here?"

**_-9 hours earlier-_ **

"Shane!"

_Fuck me sideways with a rusty razor._

"Afternoon, Mrs. Greene," Shane drawled slowly. He turned to see Lori Greene, Rick's ex-wife and the unofficial First Lady of Atlanta, peering out at him from the back window of a sleek black Lincoln Continental parked a few feet behind him at the curb; the newest model, if he wasn't mistaken.  _Being the devil's wife has its perks._ "What can I do for you this fine morning?"

"I'm just fine, thank you," Lori replied. She looked pale, almost uncertain as she craned her neck out the window to glance along the street. Her voice trembled, just slightly but enough for him to pick up the tension as she spoke. "I'm meeting my husband for lunch at the Hibernian."

"Very fancy," Shane said archly. "Well, if there is nothing I can do-"

"Can we talk?  _Now_?"

_Well. This is interesting._

"Look, Mrs. Greene-"

" _Please_."

Her face disappeared from view as she shifted back into the car and the door opened.  _What the hell?_ Shane's feet were already moving, propelling him toward the car and he surrendered to his curiosity with barely a shrug as he slid inside, pulling the door shut behind him to muffle the sounds of Atlanta's daily roar.

The interior of the car was dark, all plush leather and sleek lines.  _Nothing but the finest for the Greenes_. He knew enough about Lori to know it was what she thrived on. Appearances, creature comforts. She always managed an air of superiority even when she was trying to be kind.

He'd never really understood what Rick had seen in her.

He felt only a slight tremble of nerves in his belly as the driver smoothly maneuvered the car back into traffic. Shane knew instinctively who was behind the wheel even before the driver turned enough to show his profile: Theodore Douglas, Greene's personal chauffeur.

"Relax," Lori said softly. "I trust Theodore with my life."

 _Right, lady. Let me know how that works out for you._  Being here, in Greene's car with Greene's wife and Greene's man behind the wheel, pulled at his nerves until he was afraid of snapping.  _Play it cool, brother._

"Well then," Shane said slowly. "Here I am."

She seemed nervous, jittery as a new foal as she pulled on the hem of her skirt. Shane said nothing, just leaned back in his seat as he reached into his coat pocket and tapped out a cigarette. He didn't want to spend any more time in this damn car than he had to, but long years of training had taught him that the longer he waited, the quicker she'd start talking and get to her point. Long minutes ticked on in silence as they weaved through traffic before she turned her head to gaze out the window, as if she couldn't bear to look him in the eyes even as she finally spoke.

"How is he?"

_Shit._

"You mean to tell me all this cloak and dagger is just to ask me about Rick?" Shane said as he considered his half-smoked cigarette. Lori kept her head turned away, her posture stiff and unforgiving as she tried and failed to pitch her voice to something resembling nonchalance.

"I'm just asking."

"How do you think he is?" he replied softly. The sigh she let loose spoke volumes.  _Let's prod the bear a little and see what happens._ "Was it worth it?"

Lori snatched the cigarette from his fingers and took a long drag, leaving a smear of ruby red lipstick on the crinkled white paper.

"You've got to make him stop," she said shortly.

"You've lost me." Shane shook his head. "Stop what?"

"'Stop what?'" she sniffed in derision, making Shane grit his teeth.

"That's twice today a Grimes has tried to bait me," Shane said. "I'm not likely to take another one too kindly.  _Stop what?_ "

"The articles, spreading all those rumors and… and  _lies_ , trying to follow me as if he isn't the most obvious person to spot with that ridiculous porkpie and that idiotic pudge of a camera man glued to his side…" She was fuming now, a flush spreading up her neck as she finally turned to face him with blazing eyes. "I left him. It's over. I'm with Hershel now and he needs to respect that."  _Well, well. The bear is mad, ain't she?_

"You are a real piece of work, lady." He couldn't keep the laugh from his voice.

"I'm sorry, I know I'm being rude," Lori sighed. "Bethy was so sick we called the doctor and then Hershel was on the phone forever with who knows what all last night. I'm just tired."

"I'm sorry to hear that."  _Greene was on the phone for hours last night. Something's up._ Shane filed the words away for later as he let himself slouch further into the seat.

"I just can't stand the thought of Rick trying to ruin our lives because he's jealous."

"Jealous? Lori, you _left_ him. You left without a word, got your divorce pushed through and wound up married again to Hershel Greene, of all people, within a year."

"I'm not proud of how I left," Lori sniffed. "But you can't sit there and tell me that Rick trying to ruin my husband's career out of spite is all right."

"You're kidding me."

"I know my husband. He is a businessman, a landowner and an upstanding pillar in our church and our community."

 _Wow, she's rehearsed this load so good she's actually believing it._ Shane knew Lori wasn't stupid. If she wasn't seeing Greene for who he really was it was because she chose not to.  _Just like Rick._

"I just don't want to see Rick get hurt," she said quickly. "Not for this."

"Are you telling me you think Rick is in danger from your husband?" His mind was spinning almost out of control.  _If Lori is willing to talk…_ "Listen, let me take you somewhere safe where we can talk in private-"

"Don't be so overdramatic," Lori scoffed as she rolled down the window and pitched the cigarette stub out onto the street. "My husband is not some common street hoodlum. I worry about Rick's career, his credibility. That's all."

"Why don't you tell him yourself?"

"That isn't a good idea," she said quickly as the car came to a stop. Shane glanced out the window and saw they'd arrived at the Hibernian. "I just thought that you would have cared enough to help. We used to be friends, Shane."

_Go for broke. See what happens._

"What if Rick isn't wrong?"

"Excuse me?" The indignant screech echoed through the car and made his eardrums rattle.

"I'm just asking-"

"Don't tell me you're buying into that nonsense." Lori's voice had gone high pitched, shrill and brittle enough that Shane worried she'd bust a window. "Get out. I can't believe I thought talking to you was a good idea." She was out the door before he could blink and he wrenched himself out of the car, pushing his way past Theodore Douglas without a second thought as he chased Lori onto the sidewalk.

"What do you think I  _do_  all day?"

"What  _do_  you do all day, Shane? Have you found the arsonist who burned down Hartigan's? What about Ed Peletier's killer?" The name Peletier was enough to stop him in his tracks. He watched as she strode away from him towards the large glass double doors of the Hibernian. Lori stopped and turned just enough to cast him a withering glare over her shoulder. "You should be out looking for the people actually causing trouble, not trying to pin blame where it doesn't belong."

_Lady, if only you knew._

"That's my job," Shane spat back.

"Then you're doing a very good job, are you?"

**_-Now-_ **

Shane waited until the barkeep had refilled his glass and moseyed on to the next customer before continuing.

"Do you miss your husband?"

The silence stretched on, long and thick as he contemplated his drink. Waiting.

"Of course I do."

Shane smiled and reached out to the other glass, holding it up to her. He watched her slender fingers reach out to finally take the whiskey from him, catching just a hint of the heat from her skin as it brushed against his. He let his eyes flick to her face, her blue eyes watching him warily.

"Carol Peletier, you're a terrible liar."


	15. Off the Wagon (Part Two)

_**A/N:**  My sincerest thanks and love to my eternally patient beta imorca, who puts up with a hell of a lot more form me than she should have to. Love you, boo! And to Lydia, Laurie, Meeshie and Sanja - the ultimate cheerleaders of this tale of mine._

_Enough from me. Let's get on with it!_

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**Chapter 15: Off the Wagon (Part Two)**

" _Trouble, trouble, trouble,  
_ _Trouble is all in the world I see  
_ _Yeah, you know I often wonder  
_ _What in the world gonna become of me"  
_ _-The Trouble Blues by Lightnin' Hopkins_

_\---_

"Carol Peletier, you're a terrible liar."

_**-12 hours earlier-Carol-** _

"You need the basement cleared out?" Carol stood with her hands on her hips as she arched an eyebrow at Thom Crowley.

"Yes, ma'am." Crowley stood by the front door with his hand on the knob, nearly vibration with tension. Carol could feel it thrumming from him like vibrations off a tuning fork. She couldn't blame him. They were all on edge this morning. The echoes of Randall heaving up the contents of his stomach echoed down the stairs; Crowley had merely rolled his eyes at the first sound and ignored it, so she'd followed his lead.

The doctor had left at sunrise with Merle in tow. The solemn procession of the men carrying a quiet Merle down the stairs on a stretcher had been enough to send her running back to her room with goose bumps all over her skin. Jackson had stormed off an hour ago, bound for who-knows-where and carrying a large black case.

There hadn't been any sign of Daryl since their pre-dawn fight and his absence hung around all of them like a bad smell. She tried to ignore the knot that squirmed low in her belly every time his name passed through her mind. It was happening more often than she wanted to admit.

The house still reeked with the metallic tang of spilled blood. It was thick, sharp; she could smell it, taste it on her tongue. Carol hadn't even looked in the parlor yet. She wasn't sure she wanted to. She hadn't slept, hadn't even pretended to make breakfast this morning. There were enough leftovers from last night's uneaten dinner to fill their bellies, if anyone bothered to eat at all today.

Now Crowley was telling her that Greene wanted the basement cleared out completely by tomorrow and it wasn't even nine o'clock yet.  _It's going to be a long day._

"Can I ask why?" Carol asked softly.

"No."

She blinked, surprised by the abruptness of Crowley's response.

"Look, ma'am," Crowley said quietly as he took a step towards her. "I don't know what's been going on around here, but I'm not Daryl and you need to be careful."

"I don't-"

" _Yes_. You do."

She knew.  _God help me._  She knew all too well. She could fight back, snark and sass in the ways that were growing more comfortable on her by the day until she was satisfied… but Crowley was right. He was neither Daryl nor Merle, and for all his politeness towards her, he was the mystery man of the house. An unknown quantity… one that worked for Hershel Greene.

_Not this one. Not today, Carol._

"How soon does the basement need to be emptied?" she asked. Crowley nodded, a look of approval flitting across his face.

"Put aside anything you want," he said. "We'll handle the rest tomorrow."

"Fair enough." Carol turned on her heel, closing her eyes so she wouldn't have to see the mess of the parlor. She was ready to retreat to her kitchen or, even better, her room. Somewhere that was still hers, and only hers, so she could contemplate the swirling chaos that had become her life.

"One more thing."

 _Damn._  She looked over her shoulder at the gangster in her doorway.

"Yes?"

"There'll be a man coming here, in a while. His name's Axel. Don't ask any questions - let him in, give him some coffee and stay out of his way."

"What is he coming for?" She wasn't about to let another stranger into her home without some sort of explanation.

"Let's just say… he fixes things," Crowley said with a dark smile as he stepped through the door. The heavy wood thunked closed behind him, leaving Carol a mess of jitters in his wake.

"No, that wasn't terrifying  _at all_ ," she muttered.

_**-4 hours earlier-Shane-** _

"I know you're frustrated," Dale said. "We knew this was going to take time."

"Not like this." Shane raked his hand through his thick mop of hair as he paced back and forth around the small space of Dale's office like a caged lion. "We should have had  _something_  by now, Dale."

"This is a long con, Shane." Dale was maddeningly calm considering the ditch they found themselves in. "We knew that going in. You just need to be patient and not let people like Mrs. Greene get under your skin."

"Lori ain't the problem here, Dale."

"No, the problem is you. You want results. You want them fast and  _easy_." Dale reached out and grabbed Shane by the shoulder with a firm hand, forcing the detective to stop pacing. "Nothing about this is going to be easy."

 _Goddammit_ , but he hated it when Dale was right. Shane sighed and sat down on the edge of Dale's desk.

"So Mrs. Greene is worried about her ex-husband," Dale mused. "Anything else?"

"Nothing we didn't already know," Shane said. "She's got the blinders on where Greene is concerned."

"Could she prove to be an asset?" Dale made his way around the desk and sat in his worn office chair.

"Nah," Shane drawled slowly. "It'd take an act of God to get Lori to turn on Greene. She likes being comfortable too much."

"Hmmm." Dale leaned back as far as the chair would allow him to go, gazing idly at the ceiling. "What about the other?"

Shane sighed and rubbed his face, feeling the stiff scratch of two days worth of stubble on his chin.  _The other._ He glanced at the door, closed to the dull roar of the police headquarters. He turned and leaned towards Dale, keeping his voice low.

"She's being watched," Shane said softly. "Every time I manage to get her here for a meeting, she's got a tail on her. I'm pretty sure there are three, maybe four guys - guys  _here_ , Dale - watchin' her. They know when she's coming."

"Have you been to the house?"

"Twice during the day, once at night. Nothing - if the gang really is there living there, which I'm starting to doubt, they're ghosts. I just don't know how we keep  _missing_  them."

"Keep at it," Dale replied. "I still think in my gut the Peletier woman's the way into all of this and you're the best connection to her we've got."

"Yes, sir."

_**-3 hours earlier-Carol-** _

She'd been avoiding the parlor for hours, her daily routine shot to hell as the stench of old blood that wafted from the front of the house seemed to grow thicker by the hour. Twenty-four hours ago she'd been finishing breakfast, listening to the radio and the men's banter like every other morning for the past several months. It had almost felt  _normal_. And now…

" _Daryl looks terrific but you look like a Bible salesman."_

" _He gets like that when it comes to Irish food."_

Now everything was broken. Shattered. The dark claws of Greene and the life these men truly lead had come out to scratch at the soft belly of her reality and the wounds ran deep.

_"Trust me."_

_Everything reeking of blood, oil, smoke and so much fear until she couldn't see straight._

" _I know how to fix your brother."_

" _No. You'll cut your feet."_

" _You're just another thug with a gun."_

The shrill jangling of the telephone jolted her from her reverie so quickly she nearly screamed. Her heart thumped in her chest as she made her way to the phone. Her hand shook and she froze, sucking in a couple lungful's of air that tasted like iron and forced her hand to steady before she grabbed the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Just the plucky dame I was hoping to find." Carol smiled despite herself.

"Hello, Andrea."

Carol had seen just enough of the brash blonde over the past weeks to know her voice. She'd accepted a few more invitations join her table at the Five O'Clock Club (and turned down twice as many) and had taken many strange messages, mostly for Merle. She liked Andrea. In another world, they could have been friends.

Hell, they already  _were_ , if she was being honest. Still, she was careful. Andrea always seemed to be playing several tricks at once… a lot like Merle, but having more fun with it.

"You're looking for me? I must be in trouble," Carol laughed.

"You don't know the half of it."

Goosebumps broke out along Carol's flesh as her skin tightened in a sudden flash of fear.

"What?"

"Do you know where Dwyer's is?"

"Yes." Dwyer's was a dive, a junk bar on the west end of town. Ed had been a regular and she'd taken more phone calls than she could count from the barkeep to go pick up her drunken husband.

"Meet me there in two hours."

 _Shit._ Andrea sounded… unnerved. Something slightly less than her usual polished calm.

"I...I can't," Carol stumbled. "I'm… there's someone coming…"

"Axel won't be there until tomorrow," Andrea said quickly. "That's the official message and you can tell that brute Crowley I've done as he asked. No excuses. Dwyer's. Two hours."

"Andrea-"

"It's  _important_ , Carol. Trust me."

_Trust me._

Trust. It was a perilous thing in her life these days.

She could almost trust Daryl Dixon. That was the truly terrifying part. Every logical part of her mind screamed at her to run fast and far the opposite direction, to keep her walls up and her soul safe. The rest of her though… she was like a moth to a flame, and if she wasn't careful, he had the ability to consume her.

And Andrea…

_There has to be someone you can trust. Right?_

"I'll be there."

"There's a girl. And don't tell the boys."

" _What?_ "

Carol's exclamation went unheard. The line was dead.

_**-3 hours earlier-Shane-** _

Shane leaned back against the phone booth as he lit another cigarette, wrenching at the knot of his tie and wishing he could discard it entirely as the afternoon sun burned everything in it's path.

"Been one hot as hell summer," he muttered.

His eyes burned with the heat and the smoke. Rick, Lori, Dale, now this. It had already been a twisted day that promised to stretch on hours longer than he wanted it to.  _For what?_

For something. All of this had to mean  _something_. Didn't it? Surely, there was a purpose here. He just needed to find it.

The panel behind him shifted and he pushed himself off so the door could slide open. He turned to the blonde as she made her way out of the booth.

"Well?"

Andrea's face was grim as she glared at him with something just shy of loathing.

"She'll be there."

_Perfect._

"You done good, kid," Shane said.

"James Cagney you're not," Andrea said shortly. "What is this really about here, Shane?"

"Never you mind," Shane replied. "What did you tell her?"

"She thinks she's meeting with me," Andrea sighed. "That I have something important to tell her, something private. That's all she knows."

"Good. I've got to go-"

"Hold on there, gum-shoe." Andrea jabbed a pointed finger in his chest. "You said you had something for me in exchange. Spill."

Shane took a long drag off his cigarette, scuffing at the sidewalk with the heel of his shoe.  _How much to tell her?_

"I had a particular lady talk to me this morning," he said. "Seems an old buddyboy of mine has caught himself the eye of the devil." He waited, watching her eyes as the wheels turned in her head until things clicked into place.

" _Dammit,_  Rick," she breathed. She gave him a hard glare, weariness and worry suddenly clear on her face. "You know he won't stop."

"I know. Stubborn assed fool."

"No," Andrea said firmly, taking a step closer and invading his personal space. He reached out and grasped her elbow, keeping an inch worth's of air between them. "He's obsessed."

"With Lori?"

"Lori, Greene, his own fame. All of it… It's getting worse."

That was Rick. So driven by his own self-righteousness that everyone and everything was expendable in his quest. It was a fool's errand that was only going to end in bloodshed and death; Shane was certain of that much.

"I'm workin' on it." He couldn't tell her anything else, didn't trust her enough for that. Andrea was an asset and a liability all wrapped up in one curvaceous package.  _A real femme fatale._

"Work  _faster_ ," she urged. "Greene's got the wheels moving. War is-"

"I know," Shane interrupted impatiently. "You sound like Dale. 'War is coming.'" Andrea shook her head sadly.

"War is already here, Shane." She pulled herself from his grasp and gave another small shake of her head, the well-practiced mask of polite disinterest she wore day to day falling like a curtain across her face.

"Andrea-"

"I won't tell you more," she said. "Subpoena me, if you want. You still won't get anything. It's not worth my life… Or Rick's." She turned on her heel and made it a few steps away before she cast one more look at him over her shoulder.

"It's not worth Carol Peletier's, either."

Shane watched as Andrea strode to the corner and extended a dainty hand in the air. A taxi appeared at the curb almost as if she'd summoned it from thin air.  _They always stop for a pretty face._

"We'll see," Shane said aloud.

_**-1 hour ago-Shane-** _

Dwyer's was a dive, little more than a speakeasy but with less class. The bartender, Otis, was a familiar face from his heavier drinking days. Small and dark, with faded leftover art deco fixtures and full of nooks and crannies where one could engage in barely private conversation for a drink barely worth the cost, but it was familiar. Comfortable. A man could  _breathe_  here, without the fancy airs and graces of finer establishments like The Five O'Clock Club.

He'd slipped Otis a tenner to give him the back booth: a small, dark corner where you could see almost the whole bar without anyone seeing you back. It was perfect. So perfect that he was able to watch Carol Peletier as she entered the bar, just the faintest glimmer of nerves to her but otherwise calm and steady. Lovely, actually, with her auburn curls and a pale blue wrap dress that brought out her eyes.  _So lovely._

From the word go, this dame had defied all his expectations. She'd been strong when he'd looked for her to be weak, trembled in places unexpected and just when he thought he had her ups and downs figured out, she'd twirl off someplace wholly new to his experience.

Ed Peletier had been small fish, but his not-so-grieving widow could be the lure that brought in the big catch.

_She'll lure you if you're not careful._

The thought was enough to send him over the edge he'd been drifting along all day, raising his hand to grab her attention as he whistled for Otis. He could see her surprise the second she spotted him and smirked while he quickly ordered two shots of whiskey as she walked over to his table.

_Just enough to get her comfortable. You'll be fine. It's only one drink._

Shane gave her his best smile as the widow reached his table.

"Afternoon, Mrs. Peletier." He gestured to the chair next to him and waited for her to sit, but she surprised him, turning to the bartender with a familiar nod.

"Hello, Otis."

"Good to see you again, Mrs. Peletier." Otis' expression was inscrutable as he helped her remove her coat and settle, albeit stiffly, into the chair Shane had offered before scurrying off.

"You know Otis?" Shane asked. She refused to meet his eye, studying the worn, scratched tabletop instead as Otis returned with two tumblers of amber liquid before vanishing again.

"Ed used to come here a lot," she finally said. "I'd get calls all the time to give the cabbie directions to bring him home."

 _Well, shit._ He'd wanted somewhere neutral to meet her for this and he'd blown it spectacularly. Shane knocked back his finger of whiskey in one gulp and waved Otis for another.

_It's just two. It's only for show. You'll be fine._

"Detective Walsh-"

"Shane." He needed this to be less formal, needed to get her relaxed.  _It's got nothing to do with wanting to hear her say your name._  The warm, familiar burn of booze started to hit his system and he smiled, resting his elbow on the table as Otis refilled his glass. "This isn't official today. I'm just Shane."

"Shane."  _God but that sounded good._  "You're not here by accident."

Shane chuckled, impressed with her moxie.  _Looker's gotten sharp._

"No, I am not. Sorry about Andrea, by the way. I thought this would be better."

"Why?" She still wouldn't look at him, keeping herself stiff and upright as a girl at Catholic school as she surveyed the room. It was empty besides them, Otis having disappeared somewhere in his lair behind the bar itself.  _Why not? It's only four in the afternoon._  Shane took a long, slow slurp of whiskey, draining half the glass.  _Otis broke out the good stuff._

"Because you're being watched."

* * *

Exhaustion and nerves were a bad combination, Carol decided. Entering Dwyer's, so different in the mid-afternoon from the steady pulse of the late night crowd she'd experienced on many occasions when she'd collected Ed and had to pay his bar tab before Otis would let him leave, was like walking into a memory… or a bad dream. Seeing Detective Walsh -  _Shane_  now, as if that wasn't strange enough on a good day - instead of the expected Andrea had only amplified that.

 _Be calm, girl. He's got sharp eyes._  It was what she remembered most from the night of Ed's death. The horrible presence of Merle Dixon… and Shane. Watching her with the hard, practiced stare of a good detective. She knew she was coming off all wrong as she sat at the table but it was the best she could bring herself to do.

"Because you're being watched."

She was Alice, tumbling down the rabbit hole and helpless to stop herself as the world grew darker and narrower.

"You think so?"

"You've been tailed every time we meet up at the station," Shane said, finishing off his second glass with a flourish and waving for Otis again. "It makes sense your phone may be tapped, too."

 _Goddamn Hershel Greene. No, it could have been Merle…_ She supposed it didn't matter which of them it was. She was silly not to have thought of it before. The widow of a man she knew had been murdered, now in the employ of said murderer.  _Of course_  they'd watch her. She was  _such_  a fool.

"So this was your way to get my attention?"

"I'm just trying to keep you safe," Shane said as Otis poured his third glass. Her own remained untouched on the table before her. "You'd think a lady like you would be grateful for that."

Carol finally turned to look at her drinking companion. There was no denying that Shane Walsh was an attractive man, with his chiseled jaw and dark eyes. Thick, muscular, with an athletic build to him. A man's man, in every sense of the word. Carol hadn't been touched by a man in anything other than violence in years ( _she forced the thought of Daryl's arms, so warm and careful around her as he lifted her away from the broken glass on the kitchen floor, away_ ) but that didn't mean she was blind. He was handsome, downright dashing under the right circumstances. She had the sinking feeling though, that he was looking at her like she was a delicate flower. Something to be kept under glass. Fragile.

"I don't need to be protected, Detective," she said quietly. "But I appreciate your concern." He was twisting the heavy cut-glass tumbler in his hands, making the amber liquid swish and swirl back and forth.  _Oh god, he's already half drunk._

"My pop used to say that whiskey, like a beautiful woman, demands appreciation. You gaze first, and then…  _then_  you drink."

"That's... charming." It was eerily similar to something Ed used to say all the time, usually followed by some smart-aleck remark about wishing he had a beautiful woman before he'd swing his fist at her. A rough cuff at her shoulder, enough to knock her off balance. Sometimes a punch to her solar plexus, hard enough to rob her of her breath. He'd laugh, a rough braying honk of a laugh that would echo in her ears while she stumbled in front of him.

She still dreamed that laugh. It woke her up in a cold sweat, every time.

"Want another?" Shane plunked his empty glass down on the table and waved his arm at the bartender.

"I haven't started my first one."

"Oh." He blinked at her before directing his attention to her whiskey. "You should get on that before someone tries to steal it."

"Detective-"

" _Shane_. I told you. Just Shane right now."

Carol signed.  _We're just going in circles here._  She needed to get out of here, away from this awful place with its awful memories. Away from the detective who was starting to set her teeth on edge.

" _Shane_."

"Why. Am. I. Here?"

The clatter of the door pulled her attention for a moment. She watched as a man entered the bar, hat kept low over his eyes so she couldn't see his face. Otis pulled him to a spot at the bar, across the room from where she sat in this secluded, cramped corner with the detective.

"Do you miss your husband?"

_What the hell?_

"Of course I do." The automatic response. The  _correct_  response, delivered with as perfect pitch and tremor of voice as Rita Hayworth could have done. Merle Dixon would have been proud of her for such a performance.

Shane smiled and reached out to the other glass, holding it up to her. Carol sighed and reached out to take the whiskey from him, catching just a hint of the heat from his skin as it brushed against hers.

"Carol Peletier, you're a terrible liar."

 _Dammit._ She laughed, surrendering to the moment as she set her drink back on the table and slid it in front of Shane.

"Maybe," she allowed. "But you're a miserable drunk."

* * *

Shane laughed, resting his arm on the back of her chair as he drained the glass she'd pushed at him. She was finally relaxed, a wry smile dancing across her lovely face as she leaned back enough for him to feel the soft velvet of her hair on the back of his hand.

"A fair point," he replied. "I'll stop, if it'll make you feel better."

"It's a little late for that, isn't it?"

"No, ma'am. I'm all right."

He was better than all right. He was gloriously, delightfully buzzed, his old friend Jack Daniels winding through his veins like the coziest of blankets, warm and familiar. His mind felt clearer than it had in weeks, months,  _years_ , as the stars aligned to show him his path forward with glorious purpose.  _Go for it._

"They're closing the case on Ed," Shane said. It wasn't true, not even a little bit, but he wanted to shock her. "The trail's gone cold."

"Oh." It worked. He could see this was unexpected news and he watched as everything but sorrow flit through her eyes in the space of a second. "So what does that mean for me?"

"Officially, it means you no longer have any reason to visit the Atlanta Police Department," he said, leaning just an inch closer to her.

"And… unofficially?"

Shane pulled his arm from where he'd draped it across her chair and folded both arms on the table, close enough to brush against her hands, folded together on the table almost as if she'd been in prayer.

" _I'm_  not giving up," he said swiftly in a soft voice. "I'm gonna figure this out for you, no matter what it takes. You'll see justice. I promise."

She was caught in the spider's web. He knew it, knew it from every twitch, every blink and nervous tick in her face, from the way she'd clasped her fingers together to the pale set of her face. He knew it most of all from the sharp gasp she gave at his declaration. Purpose, given form at last.

Carol Peletier was caught in the spider's web and  _he could save her._

"Shane," she said quietly. "I don't need-"

"Don't you want justice, Carol?"  _Good god_ , but her eyes were blue. A rich, clear, bright blue, like the sky or a robin's egg or something else equally poetic. Something a chump would say.

He was desperately close to being that chump.

"I just want it to be  _over_."

"I can do that," he said. HIs inner voice, the one that sounded so much like Dale, was screaming in his head that he was pushing her too hard, too fast, but he couldn't stop now.  _So close._  "Just let me help you."

"Shane-"

He surrendered to his impulses, diving for her and tasting the soft, sweet nectar of her lips.

For long seconds, Carol couldn't remember how to breathe. Ed hadn't kissed her in any fashion since before Sophia was born. She wasn't even sure she remembered  _how_  to kiss… and yet, she knew she wasn't dreaming. She could feel the rough wood of the table, sticky and coarse under her skin where her hands had flattened out in shock to anchor her in reality. She felt the slow drift of air on her neck from the dingy ceiling fans scattered around the bar… and she felt the earnest, slow pulse of Shane Walsh's lips on hers.

She didn't kiss him back… but she didn't push him away, either. The unfamiliar, sweet sensuality of being kissed was too much of a draw for her to pull back, even as she felt Shane suck on her lower lip, leaving the heavy, spiced taste of whiskey in her mouth.

 _He's a good kisser._ He  _was_  a good kisser, confident and just the right amount of gentle but firm. Just as the beginning stir of arousal started low in her belly, she felt Shane's hand slide under the hem of her dress to skim along her thigh. It reminded her of  _Merle,_  that first night when he'd watched her change without her knowing and tried to touch her.

It was enough. Carol jerked back with a gasp, throwing her hands between them to push at his shoulders.

" _Stop._ "

To his credit, he did, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his head with a trembling hand. There was nothing but the sounds of other patrons, the bar having started to fill in the last few minutes for the bachelor dinner crowd, and the loud pants from her chest that she tried her best to calm. He seemed determined to let her speak first, gazing at her with eyes that gleamed even in the dull light.

"I should go," Carol said finally. "I have… things to do… at the house." To her surprise, Shane chuckled and gave her a dark smirk.

"How  _is_  business?"

She hedged, just for a moment.  _Trust me._ Andrea wanted her trust, Shane wanted it, Daryl…  _Oh god._ The thought of his name sent her stomach lurching, for reasons she refused to think about. Andrea with her schemes upon schemes, Shane who stared at her with an undisguised longing but not for any reason she could return and Daryl… Daryl who had extended his palms to her with eyes that pleaded for something she couldn't quite figure out yet.

_Maybe there's no one you can trust._

"Good," she said shortly, standing quick enough to send her chair skidding along the floor with a screech as she grabbed her coat. "Busy. Very busy… which is why I have to go." Shane was on his feet but leaned heavily on the table. Drunker, she suspected, than he'd realized.

"Carol-"

"Thank you for the drink," she said as she pulled her coat on. "Good night, Detective."

The word seemed to stop him in his tracks and he looked almost hurt. She didn't stay to find out, striding towards the door as quickly as her feet could go without tripping her. The burst of late afternoon sun that greeted her nearly blinded her; she'd expected night, which was silly. She'd spent maybe an hour inside Dwyer's cave, but it felt like ages had passed.

Her lips burned and she found herself rubbing at them lightly with her fingertips.  _Oh holy hell, Carol. You've gone and done it now._

"I should have asked Otis for a taxi," Carol mumbled to herself.

"I can help with that."

Carol turned, realizing the man she'd noticed enter the bar earlier whose face she couldn't see had followed her out… and was none other than Theodore Douglas, Hershel Greene's private chauffeur.

_Shit._


	16. Devil's Fire

_**A/N:** 2 chapters in 2 weeks?! I feel so accomplished. I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter 16: Devil's Fire**

The Hibernian was a palatial building set smack dab in the middle of Atlanta's poshest district. Fifteen stories of wall-to-wall luxury beyond an average Joe's wildest dreams. The first class restaurant spanned most of the ground level, all crisp white linen and tiled floors surrounded by walls of sparkling glass to separate it from the hotel's reception area. The second floor was the ballroom and dining areas for the hotel's patrons, with the hotel rooms themselves running from the third through twelfth floors. In keeping with the oldest of traditions, there was no "thirteenth" floor; instead it skipped from twelve to fourteen. The fourteenth floor was a series of private apartments for The Hibernian's few permanent residents. The top floor was also advertised as private apartments; however, unbeknownst to the general public, it actually housed the private offices of Hershel Greene and his top enforcers.

The entire building was owned by Greene and had been purchased back in the mid-twenties for the unbelievable sum of one hundred dollars, an incredible deal that had proceeded thanks in no small part to the barrel of a .45 held to the head of the previous owner by Greene himself. It was one of Greene's earliest real estate dealings in Atlanta. The old man had purchased The Five O'Clock Club outright not long after securing The Hibernian. The two buildings between them held the majority of Greene's empire and were solid proof of his greatness and his power. His pride and his joy, separated by the paltry distance of a few blocks of asphalt.

In some ways, Daryl missed living at The Hibernian, more for the solitude of having a larger space of his own and being able to vanish instantly amidst the hustle and bustle of Atlanta than anything else. The boardinghouse was miles away on the outskirts of town and he was exhausted having Jackson and his parrot Randall constantly underfoot, causing more trouble than either of them were worth, and Carol…

He couldn't even think her name without the pounding in his head double timing its rhythm. The sight of her patching up Merle with steady hands; disheveled and covered in blood in the bright lights of the kitchen as they cleaned the dishes together; looking at him with infinite sadness. ' _Don't you have a job to do, Daryl Dixon?'_ Carol, angry and yelling and throwing tea in his face at four in the morning.

' _You're just another thug with a gun.'_

Daryl was going to be sick. His head pounded so badly he was surprised the others couldn't  _hear_  it as his stomach churned hot bile that clogged up his throat and threatened to spew out all over Greene's plush carpet. He knew his face hadn't twitched so much as a single muscle; on the outside he looked cool, calm and collected.  _In control_ , just like usual. It took every measure of his control to slowly swallow the sludge back down, leaving his throat aching and raw as he blinked to settle his head and focus on the man still speaking before him.

"And we're all clear on bit borrowers?" Greene asked in his slow Georgian drawl. Hershel Greene resembled, in all ways, what someone would expect of a respectable Southern gentleman. The perfectly tailored suit and polished shoes, the thick but neatly trimmed white beard all added to an aura of quiet elegance and refinement.

 _If they only knew._ Daryl tilted his head slightly, feeling the creaking of the stiff knots in his neck working themselves loose. The old man was still going, like he'd been for hours now. Cleanup and damage control in the wake of Merle's shooting.

"The latest records I have indicate there are still several outstanding accounts. Daryl?"

It was an easy task, one Daryl could nearly do in his sleep.

"Just gimme their names," Daryl replied quietly. He winced slightly; his voice was so rough it sounded like he'd been binge drinking moonshine for days. The old man said nothing, just tapped the end of his blackthorn shillelagh on the thick carpet and nodded his head.

"Dr. Lassiter has assured me Merle is going to pull through," Greene said slowly. "We'll have him oversee things as best he can while he recovers. Given the circumstances, however, I'm insisting that Merle remain at the Hibernian under Caleb's care."

Daryl said nothing. It wasn't entirely a surprise and yet he knew that keeping Merle close was the old man's way of saying Merle was on notice. Why not? Merle had  _failed_. Greene's top lieutenant, his right hand man, had been shot, taken out of the line of duty at a critical time, with a war unfolding, buttons folding scared and Mr. Blue in the house, and he couldn't even identify the shooter.

It was a mess. An epic, goddamn clusterfuck of chaos.

"Daryl, you'll run things in Merle's stead until his return. Use Thom as your second if you need one." Greene waved his hand at them, a sure signal the meeting was over but before anyone could move there came the grating sound of a voice that was trying desperately not to come out as a whine.

"Boss, are you sure about this?" Daryl turned in his chair towards Jackson, who was leaning forward with an earnest expression. "I don't mean any disrespect, but Merle is Daryl's older brother. Wouldn't it be better to trust things to someone who isn't as… emotionally compromised?"

"Yeah, he's emotionally compromised," Randall parroted.

 _You cocky, half-assed, motherfucking, low life chiseler of a moke._  Daryl gripped the arm of his chair so tightly he felt the wood give beneath his hand, but otherwise didn't move a muscle. It seemed as if the room, the house, even the air itself froze for a long moment as Hershel Greene stared at the insubordinate gangsters with black eyes. When the old man finally spoke, Daryl swore the temperature dropped twenty degrees.

"Jackson Latcherie." Greene's voice bore the icy chill of death and even Jackson noticed, dropping back into his seat with sweat beading on his suddenly pale face. "I must have misunderstood you. Care you repeat yourself?"

Daryl's Colt weighed heavily in its shoulder harness. His fingers itched, yearning to pull the trigger on that smarmy bastard. He'd  _enjoy_  it, relish every drop of blood and the look of stunned surprise that would be frozen forever across Jackson's face.  _Fuck, yes._

"Sir," Jackson croaked, "it sounds like the perfect plan to me." For once, Randall didn't speak. He merely nodded his head, his watery eyes blown wide as he realized the full depths of his folly.

"Good. Get out."

Randall was gone before any of them could stand, the door banging off the wall and swinging haplessly in his wake. Jackson was two steps behind him, casting a disgruntled look at Daryl over his shoulder. Daryl just smirked, dropping Jackson a wink before turning to gather his things.

"Daryl. Stay a moment," Greene said as he stood and turned to the long window behind his desk. Daryl sighed and dropped his coat and hat back in the chair. Crowley stopped long enough to cuff him on the shoulder before striding quickly out of the room, shutting the door behind him and leaving Daryl alone with his boss. For a few minutes there was nothing but the ticking of the small clock on the desk. He waited patiently, knowing Greene would take his time.

"So Carol Peletier, of all people, knows how to treat a bullet wound?"

His heart skipped a beat at the sound of her name, skipping a beat nervously in his chest as he cleared his throat.

"Yes, sir," Daryl replied.

"Crowley tells me she was solid as a rock during the ordeal."

It slipped out of him before he could think.

"Coolest customer I've ever seen."

Greene said nothing, just hummed and nodded his head as he continued to gaze out the window. Daryl could practically hear the wheels turning in the old man's head. The thought of Carol being in those wheels made his hands clench into fists. He thrust them inside his pockets so they wouldn't be noticed.

"Come over here a moment, Daryl."

Daryl obediently trotted to Greene's side. He kept quiet as his boss put a firm hand on his shoulder.

" _Can_ you do this?"

Daryl shot a withering look at Greene before he could stop himself. It worked in his favor; Greene let loose a hearty laugh in response, squeezing his shoulder and sending a shot of pain through the tense muscles.

"Good answer," Greene said jovially. "Merle being shot is unfortunate, but there's still things in our favor."

That was news to him. From where Daryl sat, things looked awfully damned bleak from every angle.

"Such as?"

Greene sighed, gesturing out the window with the knob of his shillelagh.

"Look at that view, Daryl." Daryl obediently peered out the window at the cityscape sprawled before them. "Isn't it beautiful?"

"It sure is somethin'," he agreed. There  _was_  a sort of beauty to it, the lights, the scurrying of people, so tiny from here, and the slight haze that hung over the town in the late afternoon sun.

"From here, I can see almost the whole of Atlanta. Market Street is just there, the main drag, the club, all of it. Hundreds of people go along those streets every day, doing their business, and I can see all of them. These are my streets, Daryl. Atlanta is  _my_  town. I fought for it _. I_  paid for it with blood and sweat and fire. It's  _mine_."

He'd heard rumors, mostly from Merle, of the old man's tendency to wax poetic about things. Once in a while, he'd caught a hint of it but never had he experienced it quite like this.

"Do you know what the best part about this view is?"

"No, sir." Daryl shook his head.

"All those people… I can see them, but  _they_  can't see  _me_. They have no idea. Oh, they guess and they talk behind their closed doors and heavy curtains like twittering little birds afraid of their own shadows, but they don't  _know_  who I am. What we do." Greene pulled away from Daryl and the window, crossing the ornate office to pull a bottle of Jim Beam and two glasses from the dark oak sideboard.

"It's best that they don't," Greene continued darkly. "The average man does not understand what it takes to keep a town running and, in truth, he doesn't want to. Let others run things for him. As long as his basic needs are met, and a few pleasures thrown in, the average man will sit happy and satisfied."

Daryl silently took the glass of whiskey Greene offered to him as he watched his boss move about the room. The old man was talking - hell,  _rambling_  - almost like he'd forgotten Daryl was actually there.

"I knew when I came here as a boy that Atlanta was my destiny," Greene said. "I knew it in my very soul." He suddenly fixed Daryl with a look so hard that he felt it to his bones. Black fire burned in those eyes and a flash of something ran through Daryl's mind, a memory of sitting in Sunday school as a small boy, listening to the preacher drone on about brimstone and hellfire.  _You always knew what you were getting into. No sense being afraid now._  "And I'll be damned if I'm going to let that son of a bitch take it from me."

Daryl slugged the alcohol, gulping it straight back down his gullet without batting an eyelash.

"Tell me."

"I met with Merle yesterday," Greene said slowly. "Before he was shot. He told me about things he'd heard from some of his creatures."

Daryl knew about Merle's "creatures", the network of homeless riffraff and ragtag children from the shanty's who hid in the corners of Atlanta, leaping out of the shadows to beg for a quick buck from every sucker who glanced their way. They  _heard_  things, those people, and Merle always had a treat in exchange for information.  _About damn time._

"What do we got?"

"Maybe nothing," Greene allowed. He took a swig of whiskey, and then shrugged. "Maybe  _something_. A place, well out of town, that might prove fruitful. Unexpected."

"Blake?"

"It certainly sounds like him."

"Where is it?"

"A woman's club, of all places. It says something about the man's character, doesn't it? Hiding beneath a woman's skirts like that."

" _If_  it's him," Daryl said carefully. "Fella's a ghost. We don't even know what he looks like."

"It's him," Greene said. "I can feel it."

Daryl sighed and nodded.

"I'm guessin' you don't just want me to send a message?" If it were something as simple as blowing up the building it would have been brought up sooner.

"Yesterday, yes. Today…" Greene trailed off, stroking his beard as he tapped out a slow rhythm in the floor with the ornately carved shillelagh. Daryl understood instantly. Yesterday, Merle hadn't been shot on their own turf. "'If the blind lead the blind, both will fall into a pit.'"

"Sir?"

"You've never read the Bible, have you?"

"No." Daryl shook his head. "Never did see much point, not when you're gettin' preached to every Sunday." His boss chuckled, finishing off his alcohol and giving Daryl a smile that seemed almost gentle, like a grandfather's smile.

"We've been running ourselves ragged, going in circles like we have been." Greene crossed back to his desk and opened one of the drawers, producing a small microphone with the wires wrapped in a neat little bundle. "It's about time we fixed that, don't you think?"

"Should be simple enough to sneak in at night and plant a few of those around," Daryl said.

"Merle sent Morales to scout a week ago," Greene said, to Daryl's surprise. Morales was one of the button men. Good eyes, but otherwise unremarkable as far as Daryl was concerned. "It's watched at night by undercover guards."

"On our turf?"

"It'll be something for Axel to do soon," Greene said dismissively. "Don't worry about that right now. Let them think they have it under control."

"Gonna need a dame if we're goin' in during the day," Daryl said. "I can get Andrea-"

" _No._ " Greene interrupted sharply, his face scrunched in anger just long enough for Daryl to register it before it smoothed out into a calm mask again. "No. We need someone more…  _respectable_... than Andrea Harrison for this one."

 _Fuck._  It looked like Andrea had finally managed to catch the eye of the devil and it wasn't good.  _Stay calm._

"So what's the plan?"

Greene's next words were a hot ball of lead dropping into his stomach, sending him into a dizzying tailspin.  _No no no no no._

"You're going to Savannah," Greene said with a smile, "and you're taking Carol Peletier with you."

* * *

Carol sighed and clapped her hands together, sending puffs of dust into the dank air. The basement was a dark and cluttered mess, heaps of junk tossed into haphazard piles and covered with sheets thick with dirt. She hadn't been down here in years.  _It shows._  The single, naked light bulb that was meant to illuminate the room had burned out, leaving her with only the light from the stairwell to guide her way. She looked down at the two small boxes at her feet, her prize after hours of scouring the darkest corners of the basement.  _This is all that's left._

To her great surprise, Theodore Douglas had actually taken her home after the extraordinary coincidence of meeting her outside of Dwyer's. She'd sat up front in Greene's fancy Lincoln, listening to Theodore prattle on with amusing stories about his early days as a school bus driver until she'd managed to relax. He hadn't mentioned Dwyer's or anything that might have happened or that he might have seen and it had been enough to give her some measure of calm again. Even though she'd been distant to the point of rudeness, he'd still seen her to the door like a true Southern gentleman.

The overwhelming stench of blood that slammed into her the second she'd opened the front door had nearly knocked her off her feet. It was everywhere now, in every room of the house, even down here where the air hadn't been disturbed in ages. There was no escaping it. She felt it seeping into her skin, her clothes, her hair until she was afraid it would never wash out.

Between that and the memories of her bizarre meeting with Shane Walsh tripping through her mind, she was more on edge than she'd been since Ed's funeral.

"I'm going to  _strangle_ Andrea," Carol muttered out loud. She bent over, heaving the boxes into her arms and making her way towards the door trying to watch her steps as best she could. She set them down in the light that spilled from the narrow stairwell and sank onto a narrow bench, her back aching from the hours of scavenging. The piano to which the bench belonged was pushed up against the wall, the covering sheet awry, revealing the dusty keys. Carol sighed and ran her fingers lightly across the ivories, a few off-key notes warbling out in reply.

There was a creak from the stairs and she looked up to see Daryl as he stepped through the doorway into the basement. His suit jacket and tie were gone, discarded somewhere upstairs she figured, and his sleeves were rolled neatly to the elbow. The light played across his features, casting half his face in shadow.

She stayed on the piano bench as Daryl spotted her and froze, both of them staring at each other. Even in the dim light, she could make out the deep blue of his eyes. Not for the first time, she felt as if Daryl was seeing straight through her, peeling the facade back layer by layer until he could see the core of her. She wondered what he saw. To Hershel Greene, she was a pawn in a game of chess she couldn't hope to understand or escape. To Merle Dixon she was a tool. Andrea saw her as a thorn to poke the tiger's paw or maybe a doll, something to dress up now and then. Shane Walsh saw her as something to be rescued and protected, petted and feted to shine up his sense of self-worth. The memory of Shane's lips on hers made her face flush, but she still didn't turn away from Daryl's seeking gaze.  _What does he see when he looks at me?_

Carol couldn't quite muster the courage to ask him.

She realized they'd been staring at each other forever.  _I could look all day. No, stop that. Say something._

"Hi," Carol said softly.

"Hey." His voice was equally quiet, gentle but hoarse. She wondered what his day had been like to make him sound like that. It felt like she hadn't seen him in weeks, instead of screaming at him in the kitchen at four in the morning...  _was that only fourteen hours ago?_ It could have been an eternity at this point.

"How's Merle?" she asked. He allowed a small smile to grace his features as he nodded at her.

"Doc says he's gonna live, thanks to you." Daryl gestured to where she sat. "May I?"

Carol blinked, not quite understanding at first, then nodded and scooted along the weathered pine bench to make room for him. He finally broke eye contact as he sank down onto the bench with a sigh and the electric spark that ran down her spine in protest made her gasp. Goosebumps broke out along her flesh and she rubbed halfheartedly at her arms, trying to soothe them back down as Daryl rubbed at his neck. She could see his face better from here, the dark circles under his eyes and the shadow of stubble across his chin.  _He's so tired._

"Where'd you learn all that, anyhow?" he asked. Carol smiled and smoothed the hem of her dress with trembling fingers.

"My father was a doctor," she said.

"Ahha."

"A  _country_  doctor, mind you. He'd never have used a word like 'physician' to describe himself, but he was as good as..." She smiled to herself, thinking of John Sullivan with his dark hair and gentle smile. Her heart ached, as it always did. Missing him. "He was the best," she added softly.

"When'd he pass?"

Carol looked up in surprise. Daryl gave her a gentle half smile.

"Saw it in your face," he said. She nodded, turning back to study her fingers curled in the hem of her green housedress.  _It's all right. You can tell him this. It won't hurt you._

"There was a man who'd been shot crawling through a farmer's window…" Carol looked at Daryl from the corner of her eye and saw him nod at her, silently telling her to continue. "Daddy worked on him while I patched up the farmer's wife." Daryl hummed in understanding, the rest of the story fairly obvious.

"Guess the farmer didn't take too kindly to that, did he?"

Carol shook her head, at a loss for words. Daryl nodded again, the movement enough for him to notice the boxes at her feet.

"That what's in the boxes?"

"No," she said softly. She didn't want to tell him, but she knew he'd expect an answer. "They're my daughter's things."

Daryl sighed and leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. She waited, twisting and untwisting thin fabric through her fingers. It felt uncomfortable, sitting here with him with bad memories, old and new alike, filling the space between them.

_'_ _Mama, I can't move my legs.'_

_Running her hands along the slender limbs, pressing down into the cold skin. So cold._

_'_ _Can you feel that?'_

_'_ _No! Mama, help me!'_

"I am a real son of a bitch," Daryl said as he finally raised his head. Carol chuckled despite herself, the tension easing to where she could unwind her fingers from the knot of fabric she'd made.

"Yes, you are," she agreed softly. "You're not the worst I've come across today, though." Somehow, it made everything seem almost all right between them. Almost. Daryl huffed a laugh that was more a snort of amusement, arching his eyebrows at her.

"So how was your day?" he asked mockingly.

" _Don't ask_ ," Carol laughed.  _Please don't ask. I can't…_ She realized she felt  _guilty_ , her meeting with Shane Walsh seeming illicit now with Daryl before her. It was like plunging into icy cold water, the smile slipping off her face. Her look was enough to sober Daryl back up as he turned to inspect his hands, clasped together between his knees.

"How'd she go?" Daryl asked.

"Polio," Carol replied.  _'_ _Mama, I can't move my legs.'_

"She get it in her legs or her lungs?"

"Both," Carol said softly. ' _Mama, I'm scared. I… I can't breathe.'_  "She was ten."

It had taken less than a week for polio to rip through Sophia's body and take her life. Carol could still remember waking up to her daughter's screams and running in to discover Sophia couldn't move her legs, couldn't feel anything below her waist. Ed had been gone, off on one of his benders. She could barely remember the drive to town in the beat up old truck, but could recall with startling clarity the feel of her daughter in her arms as she struggled up the steps to the hospital. It was the last time she'd held her child. Not wanting an outbreak, they'd kept Sophia in isolation as the disease ravaged her body. Carol could only watch through a window, helpless, as they realized her lungs had been affected, too late for the iron lung to be of any use.

Ed hadn't even made it to the funeral.

" _Carol_." Warm fingers, gentle despite the rough skin, wound around hers and squeezed softly. "Carol, come back." She looked up in surprise; Daryl had shifted closer to her while she'd drifted in her own memories. She could feel him pressed up against her side, from shoulder to hip to the soles of her feet, toes curling in her old leather shoes. She could see the sadness and understanding mingled in his face, so close to hers she could feel his breath brush past her cheek. She was  _burning_ , all thoughts of anything but Daryl fleeing from her mind.

"S-sorry," she stuttered.  _For everything._  "Daryl, I'm-"

"Don't. You shouldn't."

Foreboding, heavy and unwelcome, weighed down on her chest like an anvil.

"Why?"

"'Cause," Daryl sighed, "In about five minutes, I'll be the one apologizin'. I told ya... I'm a real son of a bitch."

* * *

_Notes_

_The Hibernian is based off of The Winecoff Hotel in Atlanta, GA. The name Hibernian is Latin for "one who comes from Ireland". The Winecoff Hotel is best known for a fire that occurred on Dec. 7, 1946 that killed 119 people. It holds the unenviable record of being the deadliest hotel fire in American history. It's since reopened and is now known as The Ellis Hotel. Even though the events of 'Mad City' take place later than the Winecoff's destruction, I still liked the idea of using it as the basis for The Hibernian._

_The scripture Hershel quotes about the blind leading the blind is Matthew 15:14_

_Hershel's shillelagh is an Irish blackthorn shillelagh. Blackthorn wood is very prized for shillelaghs as the wood is less prone to cracking during use._

_Jackson Latcherie, for you eagle eyed readers out there with a little movie knowledge under your belt, is the name of Shelby's fiancee/husband in 'Steel Magnolias'. Movie!Jackson is a bit of a smarm, so I felt it was ok for me to hijack his name for this. I meant to mention that earlier and didn't. Bad Jessa!_


	17. Out With the Old

_**A/N:** As always, thank you to my amazing and wonderfully patient beta im0rca for tolerating me and my obsession with this story. I'm 95% certain she's regretting asking me to write this at this point... Mwahaha..._

_Enough from me. I hope you all enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter 17: Out With the Old**

Edgar Peletier had been a drunken, abusive lout who was content to live off the last remains of his familial inheritance and terrorize his wife for sport. The sound of his hooch-hoarse roar and the sight of his fists had been the source of Carol's nightmares for many years. In life, he'd amounted to nothing more than a monster, as far as she was concerned. In death, however, he had turned out to be even worse.

Daryl's explanation had been short and to the point.  _They_ , as in she and him together, were going to Savannah in two days to break into a potential hideout for a rival mobster.  _She_  was going to plant bugs, in the hopes that Greene and his men would be able to listen in on the operations inside.

She could  _hear_  Ed now, mocking her from his grave with that malicious, whinnying laugh of his. She couldn't keep the hurt out of her voice as she spoke, looking down at her knees.

"You said I wouldn't have to-"

"I know," Daryl interrupted softly. "I tried."

They were still sitting together on the rickety old piano bench in the basement with less than an inch between them. Daryl was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together. She could see his arm from the corner of her eye, the tanned skin against the crisp white of his rolled up shirtsleeves. His hands weren't the polished, smooth hands of a businessman. They were rough, callused. Slim and strong, so different from Ed's pudgy digits and even Shane Walsh's thick fingers. A working man's hands. A country boy's hands.

A killer's hands.

She  _wanted_  to trust him, was nearly desperate to sink into his arms and spill the secrets of her heart, even at the risk of making herself look foolish. She couldn't. For one thing, he was one of the very people holding her hostage for the rest of her days. For another, even if she admitted that she was,  _maybe_ , just a _little_ attracted to Daryl, she certainly wasn't his type… nor was he entirely hers. She hadn't been wrong when she'd called him a thug with a gun.

_How much blood had been washed off his hands already? How much more would those hands spill before this was done?_

She refused to let the image of Daryl with his hands held out to her linger. Instead, she tried to process the blow Daryl had just given her.  _Why me?_

_Oh._

_They're testing your loyalty._

Theodore Douglas worked for Hershel Greene… and had been at the bar… and Shane...  _Oh, Carol. You're such an idiot._ Of  _course_  he'd seen them. He just hadn't said anything about it to  _her_.  _Damn._

There were times to fight back, times to ask questions and just as she'd known instantly with Crowley earlier, this was not one of those times. She'd grown too careless, gotten too comfortable with these people. In every way, the past twenty-four hours was a stark reminder of just where she was and who they were.

This was her life now and she needed to be more careful with it.

_Survive._

"What do I have to do?" Carol sighed. Daryl's head jerked up in surprise. "To get ready," she clarified. "What do I do?" Daryl scratched at his jaw as he narrowed his eyes at her.

"Car's gonna take ya to town tomorrow mornin'," Daryl said slowly. "Andrea's gonna take care of you."

"Andrea?" She couldn't keep the shrill note of surprise out of her voice; her normal tone pitched half an octave higher.  _What in the hell?_

"That a problem?" Daryl asked archly.

Andrea, who she almost liked, but who had used her to prick Merle's side and had set her up with Shane… Survival was key, but Carol figured it was time to start a little detective work of her own. She had a bone to pick with the curvaceous blonde.

"No, no problem at all."

She knew from the look he shot her that she hadn't fooled him one bit, but she was saved by the echo of someone thumping repeatedly at the door. She sighed as she pushed herself off the bench and swept past Daryl, taking the stairs on light feet as the heavy knocking came again. The foul stench of blood grew thicker as she climbed out from the basement and a wave of dizziness washed over her. Carol reached out and braced herself against the wall for a moment, trying to steady herself as her vision swam with the onslaught of lightheadedness.

"Forget trying to clean," she mumbled. "Lets just burn the house down."

"A'right, lets burn the house down," Daryl said agreeably as he came up behind her. To her surprise, he had Sophia's boxes in his arms. He kicked the door to the basement shut and carefully set the boxes on the floor in front of it. "Lemme get the door."

"Wh-  _oh_." The last time someone had knocked on the door, it had been Merle, shot and bleeding. She watched, feeling a little helpless as Daryl peered through the curtains, trying to see who was banging on the door. Whatever he saw must have pleased him because he grunted, nodding his head and opening the door without any hesitation.

She barely registered the mumblings that passed between the two men, so surprised was she at the state of their visitor. He was a shorter man, dressed in a single-breasted suit of very loud orange and blue plaid. Beneath the oversized cowboy hat she could make out squinty eyes above the largest, longest handlebar mustache she'd ever seen. The ends were curled perfectly and shined with the thick coating of wax that held its shape.

"Well  _shi-it_ ," the visitor drawled in a thick Texan accent. "It's nastier than a fuckin' pig slop in summertime in here."

Carol felt her eyebrows jump up almost to her hairline and she choked out a laugh despite herself, drawing the man's attention.

"Oh, _fuck me_  - I mean  _balls_  - I mean  _damn -_ I… ugh… I'm so sorry ma'am," the man stammered. Daryl was behind him, eyes closed and pinching the bridge of his nose. She could see his shoulders shake with quiet laughter and she bit down hard on the inside of her cheek to keep from bursting. "I didn' even see ya there. You're jus' quiet as a lil' old church mouse, aintcha? Well, ain't that a goddamn thang - I mean a damn - Aww,  _Daryl_ ," the man moaned as he turned to the mobster behind him. "Ya knows I ain't so good at talkin' with the ladies."

"Axel MacGillivray," Daryl said with his eyes still closed, "this is Carol Peletier. She's the landlady here. Carol, meet Axel."

_This was the man Crowley sent over to fix things?_

"Mr. MacGillivray," she managed to say without laughing. Daryl rubbed at his face and pulled at Axel's shoulder, directing his attention towards the living room and it's mess. They started talking quietly between them. It took her several minutes to realize she'd essentially been dismissed. She hefted the boxes in her arms and turned to make her way into the kitchen.

"Carol."

The way he said her name, the soft click of the 'c' to the soft lilt of the 'l', was like warm honey filling her belly, making her gasp and nearly drop the boxes she carried as she looked back over her shoulder and locked eyes with Daryl.  _What was that?!_

"Axel's gonna need a room for the night."

She nodded in reply, shifting the boxes to even out their weight in the cradle of her arms. She should have moved,  _needed_  to move, but she couldn't stop drinking in her fill of him. She felt her cheeks flush pink, but she still didn't look away and as seconds ticked by into long minutes, neither did he. The weight of the boxes, the fetid reek of blood, everything faded away except Daryl, the rich blue gaze of his eyes pulling her to him. Her toes curled in her worn shoes as the warmth at her center curled outwards, sending tendrils of heat zinging through her. She hadn't felt this way since they'd danced all those weeks ago.

_The melody haunts my reverie_

God, she  _wanted_  him. She wanted to throw herself in his arms and enjoy the heat from his body as she tasted his lips. She could see it in her head like a photograph: their bodies pressed together, his arms around her, one hand curled in her hair as he kissed her with as much passion as she'd seen in the movies.

_And I am once again with you_

Daryl's eyes had gone dark, a blush working its way up his neck just barely visible past his shirt collar that sent her heart skidding into a rapid rhythm. She'd either embarrassed him with her staring or…

_Or…_

The bang of the front door being slammed shut was as loud as a gunshot, severing their connection with a jolt that left her feeling cold enough for goose bumps to break out across her skin and pulling both of their attention to the entryway. It was Crowley, already shedding his overcoat and hat.  _Fuck._ Carol fled, nearly running down the hall, through the kitchen and down the short corridor that led to her room. She dropped the boxes on the bed and clutched at her stomach, her chest heaving as she gasped for air.

_I am so fucking screwed._

* * *

For Atlanta being such a large town, finding Andrea had been a lot easier than she'd thought. She'd had the cab driver drop her off in front of Maison Blanche and waited until the car had pulled back into traffic before heading down the street to the posh little cafe she'd heard Andrea mention before. Sure enough, the madam was at a table by the window, reading the paper and sipping daintily on her coffee. Carol crept up behind a group of older women meandering down the street as they chattered during their daily shopping routine and managed to sneak through the cafe's door without being noticed. She dropped into the chair across the table from Andrea and took grim satisfaction when the blonde madam jumped in surprise.

"You're early!" Andrea exclaimed with a well-practiced smile. "I thought we were supposed to meet in an hour?"

"We were," Carol said softly. "I called a cab."

One of the waitresses sauntered over, interrupting their conversation for the moment. Carol coolly ordered coffee, keeping one eye fixed on Andrea as everything came together in her head and the blood drained from the other woman's face, leaving her pale beneath her fine layer of makeup.

The two women remained silent while they waited for Carol's coffee to arrive. It reminded her of those old wild west serial films she'd watched as a kid: the whole world falls silent to watch two gunmen facing off in long seconds that seemed to stretch out for eternity before the first shot was finally fired. It wasn't until the dainty china cup had been placed in front of Carol and she was stirring milk into her coffee that Andrea finally leaned forward, looking for all the world like she was about to step into a minefield.

"Listen, Carol-"

"You  _set me up_ ," Carol hissed, slamming the little jug down on the table hard enough that milk splashed over the sides, seeping into the thick, flower-patterned tablecloth.

"I know it looks bad. Let me explain…"

"Explain what?" It was hard to keep her voice down. Andrea was shushing her, waving a hand hurriedly in Carol's direction as she glanced around the shop. "Don't you shush me!"

"Can I just-"

"No. No, you can't." Carol's eyes burned; with tears of betrayal or sheer rage, she wasn't sure which. "Dammit, Andrea, I  _trusted_  you and you sent me into the lion's den  _blindfolded_."

"It wasn't my fault."

"You're so full of…  _You_  called  _me_!  _You're_  the one who got me there, except  _you_  weren't the one there and now-" Carol stopped, unwilling to reveal the full extent of what had gone down at Dwyer's, or the resulting mess that had unraveled around her since.

"I didn't do it on purpose!"

" _Are. You. Kidding. Me._ " Her whisper may have been as well have been a scream for all the fury it contained. It was enough to push Andrea back in her chair a few inches. For once, the cool blonde looked flustered, the barest of cracks showing through her usual polish veneer as she stared at Carol with wounded eyes. "How could…  _why_ …"

She wanted to yell. She wanted to hurl her coffee cup at the wall until it smashed into pieces, she wanted to cry, she wanted to pull at Andrea's perfect blonde coif until it was straggled and snarled and looked every bit a mess as she felt on the inside. Instead she sat, still as a statue except for the muscle that twitched uncontrollably in her cheek.

She wondered how long it would take for this life to turn her into someone like Andrea.  _Not too much longer._

The woman in question finally leaned forward again, reaching across the table to cover Carol's hand with her own gloved one. Gently, Andrea pried Carol's white knuckled fingers away from the delicate china cup she hadn't even realized she'd had clenched in her hand.

"I know, kiddo," Andrea said softly. She blinked and it was the lifting of the veil, letting Carol see suddenly the true woman inside the mask: weary, world worn and beaten. It was too vivid, too much like the secrets of Carol's own soul that she'd barely admit to herself, to be anything but truth. Carol let out a shaky sigh and bowed her head over their clasped hands, letting Andrea's whisper of solidarity flow over her like a blanket. " _I know_."

* * *

With its soft lighting, art deco fixtures and artistic displays, Maison Blanche was a mecca of high fashion, drawing in only the highest of Atlantian society. Rows and rows of incredible fabric creations were perfectly laid out, showcasing furs from London, silks from Paris and the finest Italian lace. Carol had never envisioned herself among such finery, yet here she was, standing on a small raised dais amid a semicircle of gleaming mirrors and clad in only her thin chemise as the store's proprietress, Madame Fontaine, attended to her. Andrea sat on a chaise lounge of lush green damask, a cigarette clamped between her long tapered fingers as she gave commentary on outfit after outfit. A tray of delicate finger sandwiches and dainty cups of tea lay spread out on a small round table. She'd been given the chance to sip at the tea but so far had avoided the sandwiches under the disapproving glare of Madame Fontaine.

_Apparently food and fashion don't mix._

Carol had never been a diehard shopper like some of the women she knew. This was  _exhausting_ , and really all she'd done was stand there while Madame Fontaine draped her in dozens of garments like she was a doll. Andrea had declared full veto power, nixing all but two dresses, one a soft blue velvet and the other a rich, vibrant scarlet in clinging silk.

"How many more dresses do I really need?" Carol asked with a sigh as Madame Fontaine left to scour the racks again at Andrea's urging. "You're stalling."

"I'm not, I promise," Andrea smiled. "I was just told you get you a few things. I don't even know why."

It was awkward between them, the air still charged from the confrontation at the coffee shop, but Carol thought she was holding up fairly well. Andrea had promised explanations, which was the only reason Carol had suffered as long as she had.

"I'm…" There was no way of knowing how much Andrea already knew and right now Carol didn't trust the blonde as far as she could physically pick her up and throw her. "I'm going away for the weekend." Her stomach sank as Andrea's face turned stone cold.  _Everyone's right. I'm a terrible liar._

Andrea leapt to her feet, smashing the remains of her cigarette into a crystal ashtray as Madame Fontaine arrived with another armful of clothing.

"Madame, je pense une pause est dans l'ordre. Pouvez-vous nous donner un moment seul, se il vous plaît?" Andrea's French sounded perfect to Carol and she squirmed in jealousy that she'd never mastered another language. Not that there had been much call for speaking anything at all down in Calhoun County. Learning French, or any language, would have been sneered at by her mother as the stuff of "girlish fantasies".

_'_ _Better to keep your head and your feet on the ground where they belong, Caroline.'_

Carol shook her head as the French lady swiftly walked away, leaving her alone with Andrea in the dressing room. Andrea reached over and clamped her hand around Carol's upper arm, pulling her off the dais and leaning in close.

"Don't speak, just nod your head yes or no," Andrea whispered in her ear. "You're going to Savannah with Daryl."

The depth of Andrea's knowledge was staggering.

"How do you  _do_  that?"

" _Yes or no?!_ "

 _Seven hells._ Carol nodded her head yes and Andrea released her arm with a low curse.

"Come sit with me," Andrea said, gesturing to the chaise. She handed Carol a thin cotton robe, which Carol gratefully wrapped around herself before sinking down onto the plush sofa that was a hundred times better than anything she had at home.

_I wonder what that madman Axel is doing to my parlor right now..._

"I couldn't figure out why they hadn't asked me," Andrea whispered, just loud enough for Carol to hear. "It's always me, or one of my girls they want."

"Andrea?" Carol waited until the blonde turned to face her. She was done waiting. She wanted answers  _now_. "Tell me why you set me up with Shane." Andrea sighed and rubbed at her temples.

"Let's call it… an exchange of information," Andrea said tiredly.

"You're gonna need to be more specific," Carol replied.

"Wouldn't you do the same to protect someone you care about?"

 _Well shit._  As far as excuses went, it was a pretty good one. Still, Carol was determined to hold her ground.

"I don't know," Carol said softly. "Everyone I cared about is dead and anyone I think I might care about is..."

"Is suspect," Andrea finished. "I see your point."

There was a part of her - the part trained by her mother to listen and obey and believe the laws of society - that wanted to speak up and declare that Andrea would never have been blackmailed by a police officer. The rest of her remembered Shane, drunk and twitching and nearly desperate as he'd kissed her. Shane, who'd told her the station wasn't safe. She didn't want to believe him, but she knew it was all true.

"So Sh-Detective Walsh conned you into getting me out of the house," Carol said. Was there anyone out there she could trust?

"I didn't want to, truly. Shane can be… persuasive when he wants something. I'm guessing the conversation didn't go well?" Andrea took one of the cups of tea, bringing it to her lips and taking a small sip.

"Between Shane drinking and then the kissing, no, it didn't go well," Carol said flatly.

Madame Fontaine arrived just as Andrea sprayed black tea all over the closest mirror in a perfect spit-take, her eyes wide with shock. Carol gasped and clasped her hands over her mouth as the French woman looked at them like they were misbehaving schoolgirls in their braids and knee socks. She tried to wait Andrea out, hoping the more experienced woman would smooth things over, but Andrea was in a whole other place, her mouth gaping like a fish on a hook.

Carol looked from the mirror to Andrea to the store owner, finally dropping her hands and giving a small shrug.

"We might need just a few more minutes, Madame," she said ruefully. Madame Fontaine sniffed and spun on her heel, storming off and leaving a trail of angry French curses in her wake. Carol cringed.  _Now she'll make me look like a hippopotamus in a tutu or something dreadful._ Andrea finally snapped out of it, grabbing Carol's elbows and scooting close enough for their knees to touch.

"Tell me everything, " Andrea hissed with an excited gleam in her eye. Carol smirked and shook her head.

"You first."

To her surprise and pleasure, Andrea quickly told her what had transpired between her and Shane Walsh to get Carol to Dwyer's. It was enough for Carol to thaw a little more, enough for her to weave the tale of her strange, unsettling talk with the drunk detective. Andrea gasped and commented in all the right places, standing up to curse Shane for a fool as Carol described what had happened just before the kiss itself. By the time they were done, both women wore huge smiles on their faces as they sat with their hands joined together over their knees.

_So much for staying angry._

"I really, really don't want to like you," Carol said.

"I know," Andrea laughed with a brush of her hand. "You can't help it. I'm irresistible." Carol laughed in spite of herself.

"Andrea…"

"It won't happen again," Andrea said with sudden seriousness. Carol sighed and pulled her hands out of Andrea's grasp.

"You can't promise that," she chided.

"I  _can_ ," Andrea said. "We'll come up with a code word or something."

"I'm not a simpleton, Andrea."

"You're far from it," the blonde said gently. "I know it's hard, but trust me. I won't betray you again." Carol shook her head.

She knew now that she wasn't the only one being tested by Hershel Greene. Andrea was as much in the fire as she was herself and anything was possible now.

"We'll see."

Andrea stood and paced around the small room, rubbing her hands together as she mouthed something to herself. Carol tightened her robe and finished off her cup of tea, the rich broth soothing despite being lukewarm at this point.

"So you're in quite the pickle, kitten," Andrea said suddenly.  _'A pickle'. That's understating the case._  Carol kept her mouth shut and just nodded. "Want to get a little revenge?"

_Oh lord, here we go._

"How so?" Carol asked cautiously.

"Nothing  _dangerous_ ," Andrea scoffed. "How do you feel about wasting a whole lot of Hershel Greene's cabbage?"

"Because that's not dangerous?"

"Not at all." Andrea flitted to her side, pulling her to her feet and calling out for Madame Fontaine. The French lady appeared with the sourest of expression on her thin face. "We're going to need  _everything_ ," Andrea said as she pulled the robe off Carol's shoulders. Carol gasped as slender fingers pulled at the strap of her chemise. "From the bottom up," Andrea continued with a smile. "And all the dressings to go along as well."

"You're _insane_ ," Carol spat as Madame Fontaine bowed, now smiling smugly, and shuffled off to the maze of clothing racks. "Greene will never finance the bill for this!"

"Oh yes he will," Andrea said firmly. "Just you wait."

Carol sighed as she was pushed back onto the dais. Standing there amid the glass in nothing more than her threadbare chemise left her feeling too exposed. It made her uncertain,  _nervous_ , especially as Andrea cast a critical eye up and down her figure. The question lobbed at her didn't help.

"Did you at least enjoy the kiss?"

_Good god…_

"It was a kiss," Carol said, feeling a little lost. "It was…"

She remembered the firm pressure of Shane's lips moving over hers and the warmth of his hand on her thigh. She could have let it go further; had almost kissed him back. Shane Walsh was the low flicker of a candle flame, the promise of  _potential_. She could have… but she didn't. The problem was Shane himself. Shane, and the fact that she'd felt the electric spark of fireworks from someone else, somewhere else.

"It's hard to get excited about a kiss when you felt more from just a dance, isn't it?"

" _Yes_." Carol sighed in agreement before it registered that it was Andrea who had spoken and not her own inner voice.  _Shit. Oh shit!_ "No! I-"

It was too late. Andrea was the proverbial cat that swallowed the canary, a triumphant smirk dancing across her face. Carol sighed and buried her face in her hands. It was out there now, her secret attraction to Daryl Dixon given voice and, worse, heard. It made it  _real_. She couldn't deny it now.

She wondered how quickly this would come back to haunt her. Andrea wanted her friendship and her trust, but Carol wasn't convinced that didn't mean Andrea wouldn't send her to her doom out of self-preservation.  _And I just gave her the perfect ammunition._

"Don't start," Carol warned, her voice coming out muffled through her fingers.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Andrea replied archly as the shopkeeper returned pulling a rack of clothes behind her and three assistants in tow, all of them laden with piles of clothes and other sundries that they started to organize along one wall.

Carol swallowed her nerves, feeling more than a little out of her depth as she was poked, prodded and dressed in one garment after another. She didn't see any of them, her mind buzzing with thoughts of detectives, mobsters and the aching feeling she was hurtling towards self-destruction until she felt overwhelmed.

"What is it?" Andrea was at her side, reaching up to brush a stray curl away from her forehead with an almost motherly gesture.

"Haven't you noticed the one glaring flaw in this plan?" Carol whispered. "It's just like everyone says-"

"You're a terrible liar." Andrea nodded grimly. "I thought of that, too."

It was enough that Carol wanted to weep. Proof solid that Hershel Greene was sending her to her death in Savannah.

"Don't worry, kiddo. We'll fix that."

"How?" Carol looked over at the workers as they pulled yet another dress from it's wrappings, this one in sultry black. "We leave _tomorrow_."

"Trust me," Andrea said.

_That's the whole kicker here, isn't it? I really wish people would stop asking me that._

"We'll see."

* * *

It was past suppertime before Carol made it home, cautiously opening the front door only to be greeted with the clean smell of lemons, grass and polish. There wasn't a hint of blood anywhere in the air, to her great relief.  _Axel's a miracle worker._ She held the door open for Theodore Douglas as he came up the steps carting her parcels of new finery. He'd met her outside Maison Blanche, explaining he was supposed to take her home and expressing his concern that she'd gone into town without him. Armed with new tricks from Andrea, Carol had mumbled something about miscommunication with Daryl and apologized profusely until the driver had laughed, insisting it was fine.

She'd thought about mentioning Dwyer's to Theodore as he drove them home, the backseat full of her bounty from shopping, but her instincts had screamed at her to leave it alone.  _What's done is done._  Theodore had regaled her with more funny stories, the time passing quickly until they'd pulled into the long driveway of the boardinghouse.

She pointed him towards the kitchen as she shed her hat and coat, hanging them neatly on the rack by the door. A quick glance at the other coats hanging there told her all the men were there as well.  _Damn._ She was very late, well past time she should have been back and had dinner ready. She could hear the chatter of men from the dining room, the clatter of silverware on plates.  _They must have gotten into the leftovers._ Carol started down the hall, but a quick glance into the living room stopped her in her tracks.

The place was spotless. Fresh paint glistened on the walls. New furniture sat arranged just how she would have done it herself, the woods gleaming and the thick fabrics calling out to her invitingly. Everything looked perfect, from the wet bar to the sofa, right down to the...

_The rug was gone._

The thick, faded, fraying carpet, with its loose threads and hideous pattern, was  _gone_. The rug Ed's mother, and then Ed himself, had refused to let her replace. The rug she'd never been able to get really clean, old and worn as it had been. So easily viewed as the symbol of her whole rotten life as a Peletier. The rug she _hated_.

Gone.

In its place was a new, modern, lightly colored carpet that matched the colors in the new sofa pattern. Carol dropped her bag and sat on the coffee table, kicking off her shoes and letting her stockinged feet rub along the lush threads.

"Oh," she whispered. " _Oh_."

Two days ago, a man had lain in this room bleeding out from a bullet to this shoulder. Blood had pooled and congealed all over, it's stench filling every nook and cranny of the house.

_You'd never know it now._

Was it so simple? To sweep away all traces of something old and build something new? New clothes, new tricks, but underneath weren't these the same floorboards that had borne witness to Sophia playing with her dolls? To Carol's own tears, in secret in the dead of night? To Ed's fist and the sound of her screams?

Wasn't she still the same Carol? Or was that Carol,  _Ed's_ Carol, washed away?

She and Daryl were scheduled to leave for Savannah in a few hours.

_Who would she be tomorrow?_

* * *

_**A/N 2:**  Maison Blanche was a very high end fashion store in New Orleans (on Canal Street - the Ritz Carlton is now hosted in that building). They had chain stores in a couple of the larger cities in the south up through 1991, when the chain was bought out by Dillard's._

_For the record, this chapter killed me to write solely because it needed to cover so much before we go to Savannah. I hope you enjoyed the levity, because we're headed right into my wheelhouse. Y'all know what that means..._


	18. Citrus Twist

_**A/N: Really** didn't intend for this to take so long, but life intervened. Sorry, kittens. Thanks to my eternally patient beta, im0rca, and also to Liddy, for being the best cheerleader I have when I have writing blues. Thank you for reading!_

* * *

**Chapter 18: Citrus Twist**

Caesar Martinez felt the lower lid of his right eye twitching uncontrollably as he watched the figure shrouded in shadows speak quietly into the phone. The large desk between them was piled high with stacks of books and papers full of long columns of numbers. A line from an old children's rhyme danced wildly through his head.  _The king was in his counting house, counting out his money._

"Very good. Expect the usual payment by sundown."

Martinez felt a delicious thrill of delight skitter across his skin as Philip Blake turned in his large swivel chair to face him. Shadows covered most of the man's face, but Martinez could just make out the glow of his eyes, bright pinpricks staring at him from the dark like devil's fire.

 _Un diablo_ , as his  _abuela_  would have said. Blake was smiling, a mouthful of teeth gleaming against the dark and Martinez felt a grin creep slowly across his own face. Blake may have been a devil, but  _he_  was the devil's right hand, and he was not afraid.

"Well, my friend," Blake said with a swift clap of his hands. "It looks like we're about to have company."

* * *

They were out of Atlanta by the time the first glimpse of sunrise started to lighten the sky, the sleek black Chevrolet Deluxe winding through the streets like a shadow until they left the city behind them. Daryl breathed a sigh of relief as they left the last reaches of town behind them, reaching up to loosen the knot of his tie with a finger as the road narrowed and roughened and city became country, fields of cotton stretching out from the narrow highway with the bolls fluffy and white as snow, ripe for picking. Carol was in the passenger seat and even from the corner of his eye, Daryl could tell she was stiff as a board, her back ramrod straight as she stared forward and her fingers tapped nervously on her knees.

"Relax," Daryl said.

"Easy for  _you_  to say," Carol said archly.

"'M serious. We got a long way to go. Try to sleep."

" _Sleep?!_ "

"Yeah," Daryl sighed. "There anythin' you can do about  _anythin'_  right now?"

"...No," Carol chuckled, her body visibly easing back into the seat.  _Good girl._

"Then sleep," he said as soothingly as he could. "Trust me. It'll be easier than ya think."

Daryl reached out and flicked the knob on the radio, keeping the volume low but just enough for the brassy wail of a slow, plaintive trumpet to reach their ears. Despite the crackle of the fading radio signal from Atlanta, it worked like he'd hoped, watching as Carol relaxed enough to lean her head against the window with the ghost of a smile on her face.

"Bunny Berigan. I like this song," she said.

"It's a good song."

He let the music work it's magic, easing some of the constricting pressure that surrounded them. It was nearly a four-hour jaunt to Savannah and that was if they didn't stop in Macon for grub. Once in Savannah, things would be worse than tense as they tried to walk the tightrope between life and death. Daryl had gotten good at walking that line, years spent with Greene and Merle honing his skills until he knew he could maneuver himself through blindfolded with his hands tied behind his back. Hell, he'd done it more times than he could count.

He'd just never done it with a twist before. A hell of a twist, at that. All his earlier concerns, his efforts to cling to his famous control had been smashed to smithereens in the face of this sassy, sweet,  _electrifying_  woman. His body had burned for Carol Peletier for six months, six long,  _hot_  months of things between them stretching tighter and tighter until he was sure one of them was going to snap like a worn rubber band.

That is, until last night, when Theodore Douglas had cornered him just as he'd been about to make his way out of The Five O'Clock Club to stab him in the guts.

_"_ _T… You're sure?"_

_They'd hidden in the shadows, tucked between the tall, leafy drape of some exotic plant and the wall to avoid the crowd that shifted to the rhythm of Michonne's band so Theodore could share the news of what he'd seen. Daryl could scarcely believe it._

_"_ _Sure as shootin'. Otis is an old buddy of mine and called me himself."_

_"_ _And Ca-Mrs. Peletier was there?"_

_"_ _The widow was there and that flatfoot Walsh was pawing all over her. Saw them mash lips myself."_

_"_ _Fuck."_

Fuck, indeed. Daryl didn't remember much after that except the red haze that had settled over his vision like a fine mist at the thought of that two bit gumshoe's hands and lips on…  _Quit it, ya dope._ The logical part of him - the con man, the business man oiled and greased from years of training, the  _gangster_  persona that he'd built his whole life on - that part told him with it's calm, cool voice that it didn't matter who Carol let dip into her honey as long as it didn't prove to be a threat to the organization. The rest of him couldn't help but wonder what it all meant, whether Carol had liked it and railed against the injustice of Shane Walsh having gotten to kiss her first.

_First?_

Carol Peletier was off limits, by Greene's direct command. For fuck's sake,  _he_  was the one who'd urged Greene to give the command in the first place. It wasn't a matter of who'd kissed her first, because Daryl wasn't going to kiss her at all. That's what he told himself every day, ignoring the dreams that kept him hard and aching with want through the nights. Fat lot of good telling himself anything did, because every time he found himself face to face with the dame in question, all his iron clad rules and famous control meant bupkis.

She was in, finding all the cracks and crevices of him until the wall keeping her from the core of him was so thin that one more good push could shatter him. He wasn't even sure she knew just how completely she had his number, but she had it and had it good. And now she was here, in this damned car on this damned mission and it had his blood pumping.

_You're not licked yet. Keep a cool head and you'll both be safe as houses._

If only he didn't feel like he was driving them straight to a crossroads.

* * *

" _Amigo!_ "

Daryl heard the cheerful call as he helped Carol out of the car and turned to nod at the familiar figure of Hector Morales, standing out of the simmering heat in the shadow of the Hotel DeSoto. It was a blister of a day, the air thick with the smell of salt and the sea. He could feel his scalp burning even beneath the cover of his fedora. Daryl watched the bellhop handle their suitcases while he tipped the valet, smoothly sliding a hidden crisp folded bill into the other man's palm with a quick handshake. Carol had her hand tight around his elbow, the onset of panic visible in the sudden paleness of her face.

"Breathe," he whispered. "And don't talk 'til I tell ya." He waited for her nod before guiding her up the curb. Morales held the door and waved them through into the cool shelter of the hotel lobby, all of them sighing with relief as they escaped the scorching sun. They followed the Savannah lieutenant past the registration desk, down the long line of elevators to the very last one, where a large suited figure stood guard.

" _Jefe_ ," Morales said quietly. With a solemn nod, the guard slid the key to unlock the lift and quickly ushered them inside. Daryl leaned back against the back wall to make room for everyone and everything. He ignored Morales and the guard as they conversed in Spanish as the elevator started its rise and laid his hand over the hand Carol still had locked in the crook of his arm, gently prying her fingers loose from his jacket. He felt rather than saw her shudder once before growing still next to him, but it was enough.

The trip down the hall was quick. Daryl slid his arm from Carol's grasp as they entered the large suite. It was as light and airy as he would have expected and he quickly got his bearings as he swept the room for recording devices or cameras, anything that meant they were being watched.

"You know I checked it," Morales said wryly.

"Can't be too careful right now," Daryl replied.

"'Specially not with such a sweet chippie at your side." Daryl turned to see Morales giving Carol a quick bow and narrowed his eyes at the smaller man. To her credit, Carol stayed quiet, merely turning to Daryl with a raised eyebrow. It took all his energy not to snort out loud at the look on her face.  _Same damn look she gives Merle all the time._

"Careful there," Daryl warned. "She ain't one of Andrea's."

"Going outside the box, are we? About damn time, too. Andrea's crop has been going bad for a while-"

"Shut yer yap," Daryl ordered, "and behave. Hector Morales, Carol Peletier."

He knew the instant he'd introduced her that Morales recognized the name as the gangster straightened and gave a look filled with much more respect than had been there seconds ago.

"Sorry, ma'am," Morales said. "We're not used to having an actual lady around."

"In this place? I'm surprised to hear that," Carol said archly.

 _'_ _Atta girl._ He bit back a grin as Morales fumbled and stuttered, trying to find a suitable response for a long minute before Daryl finally took pity on the him.

"That's enough," Daryl said. "Clock's tickin'. Lets get to work."

"I'll go get the stuff," Morales said. He was gone before Daryl could blink, leaving them alone in the posh suite.

Carol had discarded her traveling coat and hat and was pacing around the room, kneading her hands together as she worried at her bottom lip. It wasn't panic he felt coming off of her but a sort of grim determination. Determination was good; he could work with that.

"Ready to work, little bird?" She turned to him and he could see her weighing her words carefully. He felt the pull he always did around Carol, low and hot in his belly, that made him want to reach out and touch her, stroke her arm and tell her it was going to be all right.  _You start touchin' her, you won't stop._ To his great surprise, she winked at him just as Morales chose that moment to bang his way back into the room, loaded down with heavy cases of equipment and a pile of rolled up papers wedged on top, held in place by his chin.

"Yeah," Carol finally said softly. "Let's get to work."

Time melted together into a blur of roadmaps, blueprints, fake identities and bits of wire and plastic: the bugs Carol was supposed to plant at the Savannah Women's Club tomorrow, in the hopes that the place was indeed a hideout of Blake's.  _The Governor_ , as Morales had called him while giving them the fresh intel. Daryl snorted in derision.  _Pretentious little prick._

The plan sounded simple enough: get into the club, get them to give Carol a tour so she could plant the recording devices, and get out. Not too shabby. Hell, Daryl's first stickup had been more complicated… on paper. He refused to admit it out loud but he was nervous. There were too many variables, too many things that were outside of his control, too much potential for disaster.

"Hell of a gag," he muttered to himself.

Daryl reached over and stubbed out the remains of his cigarette in a nearby ashtray that was overflowing with ash and remains of at least a dozen other sticks. Piles of cabbage and scratch were laid out on the table, along with the identification papers Morales had procured for them. Daryl picked up a long piece of paper covered with official looking government seals stamped all over. A wedding certificate, or as close to a real one as they could forge.  _Mr. and Mrs. Black._ Easy enough for them to remember but not enough to stand out.

Carol had excused herself, declaring a need for fresh air after hours locked in the smoky room. They'd hammered at her for the last few hours, going over her character routine until it was as close to polished perfection as it could be. Daryl had to admit he was impressed. She wasn't Andrea, but she had a good chance of pulling this off. He glanced towards the open doors that led out to the balcony, surprised to see the sky dark against the haze of city lights. A look at his watch told him it was nearly nine o'clock at night.

"We gotta call it," Daryl said. "She ain't got it by now, she ain't gonna get it."

"She's got it," Morales replied. "Dame's one tough slice."

Daryl quickly checked to see that Carol was still outside on the balcony before leaning close to his fellow gunman.

"Think this'll actually work?"

"It's a Hail Mary play for sure," Morales said with a shrug, "but it's not like we've got any other options."

Daryl sighed and leaned his head back against the sofa, closing his eyes against the headache he felt starting to pound itself in his skull. He left out a small 'oof' as something thunked into his chest and fell into his lap. Cracking an eye open, he dug into the envelope Morales had thrown and pulled out a set of matching wedding bands.  _Christ._   _Merle would be laughin' his ass off if he were here right now._

"Hell with this," Daryl said. "I gotta eat."

"Did someone mention food?" Daryl craned his neck to see over the back of the couch; Carol had come in from her breather and was standing just inside the doors, looking a shade paler than he would have liked. His stomach growled and he realized they'd skipped lunch.

"Take half an hour to get all gussied up an' we'll go down to the dining room to eat."

"Will they still be open?" Carol asked mildly.

"They will be for you," Morales said with a laugh as he started repacking the crates. " _Me voy a casa,_ _muchacho._  Carmen's gonna have my head on a plate if I'm any later."

" _Adios_." Daryl replied with one of the few Spanish words he knew, a sign of his respect for the job Morales had done on their behalf. He turned to Carol and nodded towards the large bathroom. "Tick, tock, little bird. Oh, and here." He tossed the small diamond ring to Carol, who caught it deftly with one hand.

"Awww, thanks Pookie," she said dryly as she slid the ring on her finger. "And they say romance is dead."

"Good lord." Daryl rolled his eyes as Morales' laughter followed the man himself out the door with a half-wave in their direction. "Feelin' a lil' sassy now, are we?"

"Only when I'm hungry," Carol shot over her shoulder as she sauntered off to get dressed for dinner.  _Skirt's on a roll tonight._ Daryl shook his head, waiting for the bathroom door to snap shut before he picked up the phone and spun the dial, connecting to the private line at the club. Jenner's voice was brisk and full of calm authority as he quickly filled Daryl in on the details unfurling at the club tonight. He was still too new, still hadn't made his bones with them yet, but Jenner was growing on Daryl.

"Good. I'll call again," Daryl said once the manager had finished.

"There's one other thing, if I may," Jenner said. "Glenn Rhee is desperate to speak with you."

 _Shit and shinola._ If the Rhee kid needed to talk and it wasn't anything he'd been willing to pass on through Jenner, then it was serious.

"Put the bartender on," Daryl said shortly. "This line. Cover him until we're done."

"One minute."

Daryl sighed and ran a hand through his hair while he waited and listened to his stomach growl.

"Sir?"

"This better be good," Daryl growled.

"S-sorry about this, sir-Daryl, I mean…"

Daryl sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. " _Glenn_. Breathe, count to three an' start again."  _We're gonna have to work on that._  He waited, counting the beats in his head and was pleased when the kid sounded much calmer as he started over.

"I know you're on business but I wasn't sure if I should tell this to Jenner yet," Glenn said carefully, "but that copper was here. I'm not even sure how he got past Big Tiny-"

"Which copper?" Daryl hissed.  _Don't tell me…_

"It was that smug jackass, Walsh."  _Fuck._  "He was asking about  _the widow_. Is she missing?"

 _Double fuck._  Daryl cast a dark look at the bathroom door where the widow in question was getting ready for dinner. The people who knew she was with him could be counted on one hand and Rhee wasn't one of them.

"What did you tell him?"

"Just that I hadn't seen her but she's not a regular so that's no surprise."

"Good. He shows his face again before I get back, get Crowley. No questions, yeah?"

"You got it."

"Nice work, Glenn." The kid really was sharp. Daryl made a note to mention him again to the old man. Rhee deserved better than a barkeep's living. Hell, he was a cooler customer than Randall and more level headed than Jackson. He was starting to think more and more about completely reworking the system while he had the chance.  _Change things before Merle gets back._  That was a hell of a pipe dream.

 _Talking of pipe dreams…_ Daryl hung up the phone and glared at the bathroom door, wishing now he'd decided to have dinner in the room so he could talk to Carol and get this sorted out. The whole thing was getting out of hand. They couldn't afford to have Shane Walsh poking his nose around where it didn't belong.

It looked like he had some extra things to take care of when he got home.

* * *

The dining hall of the Hotel DeSoto didn't quite have the same glitz and panache of the Hibernian or even The Five O'Clock Club, but it had enough old world charm to keep the wealthy vacationers satisfied. The room was darker than usual, most of the light coming from the wall lamps lit just around their area and the flickering candle in it's little glass votive in the center of the pristine table setting.

They'd been silent since they'd sat down and ordered their food, whether it was from nerves or the overall stillness of the room, Daryl wasn't sure. He had one hand splayed out on the table, the white linen tablecloth stiff beneath his palm. The other worked the napkin in his lap between fidgety fingers, clenching and twisting the fabric as he went back and forth in his head over Shane Walsh. And Carol. Walsh and Carol, Carol and Walsh. Walsh  _kissing_ Carol…

 _You're focusin' on the wrong issue here._ Sometimes Merle's voice was very  _loud_  in his head.

It didn't help that he couldn't take his eyes off of Carol, draped in a dress of scarlet silk that clung to every dip and curve of her body. She'd literally knocked the breath out of him when she'd emerged ready for dinner. Not even a full half an hour and she was a total knock out. His eyes drifted down the slope of her neck to the graceful sweep of her shoulders, left bare from the deep cut of the dress. He wanted to run his hands over her, see if the silk was as soft as it looked and feel the warmth of her skin under his hands.

Daryl wondered if Shane Walsh had touched her there while they'd kissed. The thought alone made him want to scream.

He knew he was in too deep with Carol. There was something between them, something electric and hot. He felt like a rubber band being stretched tighter and tighter every day and had the feeling it wasn't going to be much longer before that band snapped and he did something insane. She drove him crazy, just by being herself.

"So," Carol finally broke the tense silence between them. "How does it feel to have the power to get this hotel to reopen their dining hall and kitchen just for you?"

The dining hall had closed an hour before they'd arrived downstairs. Daryl cast a quick glance to the stiff, tired-looking but still attentive maître d', who held watch by the closed doors of the hall's entrance.

"It's not bad," Daryl allowed with a smirk. There were perks to his life, after all, and this was one of them. Carol  _hmmm'd_  at him and leaned back in her chair as she fiddled with the long stem of her wine glass.

"You don't wear it well," she said softly. Daryl cocked his head at her in surprise.

"How d'you mean?"

"You put on this polished show, this high class bad boy figure… but it's not you. Not really."

"'S that so?" His skin was humming, the hairs on the backs of his hands and neck standing up. She forever had the capacity to startle him with how much she  _saw_. "Got me all figured out then?"

"Not by half," Carol laughed. "You're a mystery man, Daryl Dixon."

Daryl chuckled and took a long swallow of the rich red wine. He wasn't entirely sure drinking was the best idea right now, but he didn't care enough to stop. Not yet.

"Really, how  _did_  you get us in here?" Carol asked curiously. He sighed and leaned forward, folding his arms on the tabletop. Carol met him halfway, leaning in so close he could feel the heat leaping off her skin as she matched his pose. It was hard work keeping his eyes from drifting down for a more detailed look at the tantalizing view the low neck of her dress offered him, but he managed to stay focused on her face.  _Her smooth, sweet face…_

"Ain't hard. We're still on the old man's turf." His insides squirmed with enjoyment at her obvious surprise.

"You're kidding…  _Here_?"

"Who'd you think Morales was then?"

"I don't know… a cohort of some kind…"

" _Cohort_?" Daryl laughed gently.

"Oh, hush." Carol swiped at him teasingly, the fleeting touch of her hand against his enough to set him ablaze. "You know what I mean."

"Sorry to disappoint ya, sweetheart," Daryl said. "We're in safe territory right now."

"Then how-"

"Not here." Daryl shook his head. "Ain't that safe and it's not somethin' you should know… just in case."

"...Comforting, thank you." Carol sat back just as the waiter arrived with their food. Daryl leaned back and tried to smooth his wrinkled napkin across his lap. The smell wafting up from the thick steak sent his empty stomach into overdrive and he waded in, resisting the urge to groan as the succulent meat nearly melted on his tongue. He heard a sigh from across the table and opened his eyes, not even sure when he'd closed them, to see Carol apparently experiencing as much rapture over her dinner as he felt.

"Duck's good?" he asked.

"The duck is  _so good_ ," Carol moaned as she brought another forkful of duck and risotto to her lips. They both fell silent as they worked on cleaning their plates until the maître d' himself came to refill their wine glasses.

"Thank you so much," Carol said as she looked up at the quiet host. "And please, thank the staff and tell the chef the food is absolutely  _delicious_. I'm in heaven!" Daryl saw the admiring look in the maître d's eyes as he bustled off to the kitchen, presumably to deliver her thanks. Carol caught his eye and shrugged. "I feel bad, having them work so late just for us. And the food really is delicious."

Daryl shook his head and laughed to himself. It was louder than he'd meant, because Carol had obviously heard him when she quirked an eyebrow in his direction.

"What?"

"You," Daryl said quietly, moved to truthfulness despite himself. "Any other woman I'd have brung here wouldn't think twice 'bout thankin' the staff for this. They'd just…"

"They'd expect it," Carol finished softly. "Part of the perks of being with Daryl Dixon, I suppose."

"Or any other high roller," he replied. "But, yeah."

"Is it worth it?"

Daryl met her eyes over the faint candlelight and felt that rubber band deep inside him stretching ever tighter. Pulling him towards her.

"I dunno," he replied. "You tell me." Carol leaned forward again, elbows perched on the table as she rested her chin on top of her folded hands and studied him intently. The shivers were back and twice as strong as he sat still under her gaze. The yearning inside of him mingled with the faint buzz from the amount of wine he'd had with dinner until his skin crackled with electricity and the room started to blur and spin.

"Yes… and no," Carol said finally.

"Clear as mud," Daryl shot back, his voice lower and rougher than he'd expected.

"Clearer than you want to admit," she replied with a smirk.

This was it. This was how he was going to go out, after years of unspeakable violence and danger under Greene's thumb: spontaneous combustion from wanting Carol Peletier. This woman was going to be the death of him, and this was just from looking at each other. God help him, but if she touched him now, he'd explode. He felt too vulnerable, too exposed and his defenses kicked in instinctively.

"Ya ain't the closed book you think you are," he said hotly.  _Shit._ Carol smiled and sipped at her wine.

"Got me all figured out?" Hearing her echo his words back at him was enough to set him off.

"You're an only child," Daryl rattled off. "An only child with daddy issues and no sense of self worth. Ya sat by and let that fat bastard do whatever he wanted to you for years without fightin' back. You're a hell of a cook, your favorite color is red and your favorite fruit is peaches. You can stand up to Merle one day and be shakin' in your heels around him the next. I can snap my fingers and have the finest hotel four hours from home open it's dinin' room just for us and you feel bad for the staff. You're clever but'cha ain't as smart as ya think. You're lonely and a loner and some of that's by choice… and you're damn crazy to boot."

He was cursing himself even as the words fell out of his mouth. He'd been rougher and more defensive than he'd meant with her and it showed in the solemn paleness of her face. He'd even mentioned Ed to her. Not to mention she was throwing herself into an unknown danger hours from now and he may have just shot the whole thing to hell with his fat mouth.  _Goddammit._

"...And I'm an asshole," he said lamely, all the energy suddenly sucked out of him. He sank deep in his chair and rubbed at his forehead. "'M sorry. I don't know what came over me just now."

The silence was deafening. He was too scared to look, instead studying his empty hands as the waiter reappeared and cleared their plates. _Fuck, hope nobody heard that back there._  When Carol finally spoke, it was a bucket of frigid ice water being dunked over him.

"Mommy issues."

"Huh?" His head shot up and saw her staring back at him, sadness and resignation and surrender all mixed together. He wanted to kick himself for putting that look on her face.

"I have 'mommy' issues," Carol said. "Ed was her choice. I was seventeen and it was an arranged marriage, her way to get me out of the house after my father died. We'd never gotten along, my mother and I. She's devoutly Catholic, obsessively religious and I'm… not. Ed was… revenge, on her part. Judgment, for not being the type of daughter she'd wanted."

"Carol-" Daryl quickly fell silent as she held up her hand at him.

" _Let me_ ," she said softly. "I haven't spoken to my mother since she told me Sophia's death was God's judgment on me for not being a better wife to Ed... and a better daughter to her. I don't know if she's alive or if she's dead… I'm not sure I care. My best friend was my father, and after he died I didn't have anyone. I never knew I  _could_  run from Ed. I didn't know I could be strong like that… I think I could, now. I'd like to think that if Ed walked into this room right now, I'd tell him to go to hell."

Daryl couldn't breathe, couldn't even blink with the weight of what she was giving him.  _Trusting_  him with. It was  _so much_ , and he'd never given her any reason for it except follow orders to turn her into a serf, another undistinguishable cog in the Greene machine. He knew, without having to ask, these were things she'd never shared with anyone. Not Andrea, not Walsh. Just  _him_.

He had to bite his tongue to stop the countless declarations that threatened to leap from his lips.  _You're so much better than you think. You're beautiful. You're strong. Let me show you._

"And yes, you're an asshole," Carol said tiredly. "But it's been a very long day, so I forgive you… this time."

One more thing she'd given that he didn't deserve, and yet he was relieved not to fight with her. Not tonight.

"All right then," Daryl finally said.

"All right then," Carol echoed back. There was a short pause before she sent him a wicked smirk. "And my favorite fruit is oranges, not peaches."

"Blasphemy," Daryl said and before he knew it they were both laughing and everything was all right between them again.  _Gotta be the wine._  "A born and bred Georgia girl pickin' oranges over peaches?"

" _This_  one does." She was smiling that soft, dreamy smile of someone remembering something happy. He had no right whatsoever, but the urge to know was too great. She'd told him terrible things just now and he wanted to know the good.  _Needed_  to know.

"Tell me. Please?" Merle would have kicked him to the curb for the pleading tone of his voice but Daryl needed her to understand, without him having to explain. He knew he'd never find the words, not with the state he was in… but this was Carol, and he knew she'd gotten the message after all.

"My aunt married this… traveling salesman of sorts," Carol said. "They moved out to California, where he turned out to be an awful salesman but they made things work. My father took me out to visit, just the two of us, the summer before he died. They barely had room for us… I slept on the sofa and Daddy on the floor like a hobo. They lived in this tiny little house that some rich farmer rented out to them and it was right on the edge of this huge orange grove. It was so dry and hot, even at night that I could barely breathe in that stuffy house. So I'd take my blanket outside and I'd lie on the ground among the orange trees and stare up at the stars for hours."

He could see it, clearer than any photograph or flicker show in his head: the lithe young girl she'd been, lying on her back outside to surround herself with the sweet smells of dry leaves and citrus as she counted the stars and twirled the soft ends of her curls around her fingers.

"I'm being ridiculous," Carol said with a shake of her head, those same auburn curls that had been taunting him for weeks dancing as she moved. "Let's blame the wine-"

"No, you're not." Too far gone, he didn't even try to stop himself as he reached across the table and clasped her hand in both of his. The band inside of him, all want and lust and something more he'd never considered in his life, stretched tighter than he'd ever thought possible, but not broken.  _Not yet._  "No, you're not."

* * *

_**A/N 2:**  A few footnotes, if I may, since there is so much in this chapter:_

_The children's rhyme that Martinez keeps thinking of is 'Sing a Song of Sixpence'._

_The song Carol & Daryl listen to in the car on the way to Savannah is "I Can't Get Started" by Bunny Berigan. Phenomenal trumpet player. Do yourselves a favor & go check it out. There are versions on YouTube and, of course, iTunes. Please. Do it for me. It's such a great song._

_I am aware my Spanish is atrocious. My apologies.  
'Un diablo' - a devil  
'Abuela' - grandmother  
_ _'Amigo' - friend_ _  
'Jefe' - boss  
_ _'Me voy a casa,_ _muchacho' - I gotta go home, buddy  
_ _'Adios' - goodbye_

_ Noir Lingo _   
_'cabbage' - money_   
_'scratch' - fake money_   
_'chippie', 'skirt', 'slice' - woman, lady_   
_'bupkis' - nothing, bullshit (basically)_

_The lines you recognize - Carol's use of Pookie, the end of her speech about Ed - are obviously from the show. You knew they were gonna show up._

_The scarlet dress Carol wears to dinner is based off of[this wonderful piece of fan art](http://fairiesmasquerade.tumblr.com/post/96295242363/deerpaigeeart-madcorvus-imorca) that was drawn by deerpaigeeart on tumblr, whose own piece was inspired by the general feel of 'Mad City'. I felt the need to repay her wonderful generosity by working the dress into the story somehow._

_The story Carol related of visiting her aunt in the orange groves is actually a memory from my own childhood. I had no idea Carol was going to like oranges when I started this chapter, but it turns out she does and things spiraled out from there. To be honest, Carol and Daryl both surprised me quite a bit and took things in an unexpected turn. This was definitely not the chapter I had intended to write, but who am I to argue with my characters? Fingers crossed that it works for you as well as it did me._


	19. Flim-Flam Floozled

_**A/N:**  Yes, Mad City (and I) are alive and kicking! Anybody still reading this deserves a hug and a cookie. *passes out both to all* I hope you enjoy!_

_A shout out to my girl Liddy, without whom this chapter would never have been written. We're calling her "FM's Muse Whisperer". This is also for Sanja, meeshie, bonnyblonde and my eternally patient and amazing beta imorca: the Mad City cheerleaders._

* * *

**MAD CITY - Chapter 19: Flim Flam Floozled**

"Whaddya _mean_  she's  _not here_?"

Shane Walsh glared at the ludicrous figure standing in Carol Peletier's doorway. Mismatched threads, an oversized handlebar mustache and a distinctly out-of-town accent.

"I mean just what I done told ya already. She ain't here."

"Listen you-" Shane snarled and lunged forward, stopped from going through the doorway by the stranger's hand on his chest and the hulking figure of Thomas Crowley himself appearing like a ghost over the man's left shoulder.

"Detective Walsh," Crowley said icily. "Do we have a problem?"

"I want to speak with Mrs. Peletier," Shane replied. "Now."

"It's like my friend here told you. Mrs. Peletier isn't home."

_That's how you wanna do this? All right asshole._

"I'll wait."

Crowley pushed the stranger behind him and came nose to nose with the detective.

"That's a long wait you've got then. She's gone for the weekend."

This was bad. Every single sense inside of him was screaming at full volume in clanging discord.

"Gone where?"

"It wasn't my business so I didn't ask… and since this is my home as well and you don't have a warrant…" Shane caught the barest glimpse of a smirk on the mobster's face right before the door slammed shut. Teeth clenched so hard his jaw was aching, he pounded his fist on the doorframe but nobody came to answer.

 _Fuck._ He stormed back to his car and threw himself behind the wheel. From the passenger seat, Oscar Campbell sat with his pistol balanced in one splayed palm, flicking the safety on and off with his thumb, over and over again.

"She's not here either?"

"Naw, man," Shane said grimly as he popped the clutch and reversed out of the long driveway. "This ain't right. Somethin' smells fishy."

He'd really gone and gummed everything up. Shane barely remembered what had happened at Dwyer's; he'd woken up last night with a screamer of a headache and his stomach riding one hell of a roller coaster only to find Dale's disapproving mug staring down at him. It had been  _years_  since he'd gone on a days-long bender likes this. Things were critical and he'd gone and shot himself in the damn foot like a chump. He'd felt like a kicked dog as Dale delivered the message that Andrea Harrison, of all people, had been by the station looking for him, saying she was worried about Carol. He'd been to the house, the pharmacy, down Market Street and even the club and nobody had seen her. Andrea wasn't answering and now these no good lowlifes were saying she was going to be gone for _days_?

He needed to talk to Dale. Fuck that, he needed to talk to Otis and figure out just what the devil had happened at Dwyer's. He had the sinking suspicion he'd mucked shit up worse than he knew.

_Where the hell was Carol?_

* * *

"One more time."

Carol braced her palms on the dashboard, breathed deep and slowly exhaled, focusing on the small green building with the red door across the street.

"Our names are David and Karen Black. You work in cotton exports. We're interested in buying a house in Savannah but we wanted to look at the area before we make a decision."

"If people ask-"

"Play it shy, give short answers, no details."

"'Atta girl," Daryl said. "Remember, they've gotta like us both but forget about us the moment we leave. Be specific but not memorable. Be funny but don' make anybody laugh and -"

"I know, I know," Carol interrupted. "Don't look up or down because they'll know I'm lying. Make eye contact but don't stare."

"The bugs are-"

"Are in the hidden pocket at the bottom of my purse." She nodded towards the bag on question where it lay across her lap. Standard black, but it worked with the outfit she'd chosen for today: a slim pencil dress in navy blue with a pleated red insert over the bodice of the dress. It was simple but elegant, the perfect choice for her cover today.

"Ya ready?"

Carol laughed nervously and shook her head.

"No," she admitted, "but I don't think I ever will be, so let's go." She had her hand on the door handle before the feel of his hand on her shoulder stopped her.

"Hey. Look at me."

There was no resisting the firm command in his voice. His eyes were blue fire when she finally met his gaze for the first time since they'd left the hotel that morning.

"If I didn' think you could do it, I wouldn't let ya go in there with me," Daryl said.

"But Greene-"

" _Fuck_  Greene."

She thought her eyes might pop out of her head in shock.

"I promise you," Daryl said fervently. "Ya got this."

She took a long minute to study him intently but couldn't find any hint of a lie anywhere. The idea that Daryl would go to such lengths, even though she knew it was only for the sake of the job than her, was enough to settle the nerves in her stomach. She felt a sudden calm wash over her, linked to the warmth of his hand she could feel through the thin fabric of her dress.

"I've got this."

"Again."

She let out one last, long sigh, her body shuddering under the force of it before she nodded her head at him.

"I've got this."

"Let's go."

* * *

Getting through had been easier than he'd thought. With Carol's arm linked through his and winning smiles plastered on both of their faces, they'd gotten through the door with nary a second look. Daryl had been able to charm the ditzy little desk clerk into giving Carol a private tour herself, since the club's matron was out for the day. Now it was the hard part for him.

Waiting.

Daryl looked around at the tiny lobby, with its old style furniture, before slumping down into a stiff armchair. The headache he'd been fighting all day finally broke free, thumping against his skull with all the enthusiasm of a babe in diapers banging on pots and pans with his ma's spoons. He was desperate for a drink, but he couldn't. Not here, not  _now_.

He had the easy end of things. All he had to do was wait. The rest was up to Carol.

Daryl leaned forward and dropped his head into his hands as long minutes turned into an eternity.

_Where is she?_

* * *

Six bugs.  _Six._  That was all. Six black metal circles that fit in her hand, hidden in a false pocket in her purse. All she had to do was hide them.

_That's all._

The incessantly cheerful chirping from the receptionist showing her around blurred into an unending stream of white noise as Carol focused on every shadow, every crick and creak her ears picked up with an almost panicky determination. She was sweating beneath the layers of makeup on her face, the cold sweat that came with terror, and prayed it wouldn't show.

She felt her head bob like a puppet's on a string, automatically responding to something the girl had asked as they moved into the meeting room. She slid her hand along the bottom of her purse and felt the weight of the listening device plop into her palm, just like Morales had said it would. She stopped long enough to stick it at the base of a huge potted plant.

_One down, five to go._

"And that's it!"

The world came to a jerking halt and Carol focused on the girl staring expectantly back at her.

"That's it?"

"That's all I'm allowed to show you, I think."

"I was expecting there to be more," Carol tittered.  _No, we can't be done I have five more of these damn things left. Think, girl, think!_

"Well, Mrs. Monroe isn't here and I don't know what she usually does on her tours, but-"

"Listen, sweetheart," Carol interrupted gently. "Tell me your name again?"

"Olivia."

"What a lovely name," she said as the wheels churned frantically in her head. Andrea's voice echoed silently to her.  _Draw from what you know._ It warred with Daryl's. _Don't be memorable._

_Hell with it._

"Olivia, is there anyway we can make this tour go a little longer? I just need... " A nervous smile, a fluttery wave of her fingers as her eyes darted anxiously back towards the hall to the entryway. Old physical ticks,  _tells_ , from the early days of her marriage she'd long since learned to control. She knew her plan had worked as Olivia's eyes grew wide in her round face.

"Oh. You want more  _time_ … away. Like a break."

" _Yes_." Carol reached out and clutched the girl's hand in a tight grip. She didn't have to fake the look of relief on her face. "I knew a smart, intuitive lady like you would understand." She didn't enjoy preying on the sympathies of other women like this but desperate times called for desperate measures.

"Well, I suppose I can walk you through the back offices. Nobody else is here anyway. Everyone always leaves early when the weather is nice like this."

_Hallelujah._

"Olivia, I think you just became my  _favorite_  person."

* * *

Daryl stayed as low as he could, peering out over the ledge of the window as the black Chevy slowly rolled by the women's club for the third time since Carol had disappeared with the receptionist. He was almost a hundred percent certain it was Blake's men in that car and the urge to take up the chase was almost unbearable. He saw himself sprinting to the car, smashing in the windows with the butt of his sidearm, dragging the poor shmuck out by his shirt and beating him to a pulp, forcing information on Blake from him. These assholes had torn up his town, shot his  _brother_ , for fuck's sake, and if there was one thing Dixons knew well, it was the thirst for revenge.

The only thing that stopped him was Carol, somewhere in the building with only a floozy desk girl. If he left and someone else  _came in_ … It was unthinkable. He couldn't leave her. He glanced at the clock that hung on the wall behind the front desk; fifteen minutes.

"Come on,  _come on_ ," he muttered aloud.

The screech of brakes right outside the building had his heart thudding heavy in his chest.  _Goddammit._

* * *

One. Two. Three.  _Four._  In plants, under a desk in the accountant's office, behind thick books that looked at if they hadn't been touched in fifty years. Carol was actually quite proud of her cunning, having conned Olivia into showing her everything, from the kitchen to the private conference room used by the administration.

"This is the matron's office," Olivia said with a wave of her hand. "I really can't let you in there, though."

"Oh no, of  _course_  not." Carol was all gushing thanks and understanding with each new room and Olivia was lapping it up. "What is she like?"

"Mrs. Monroe? She's all right. She's been the matron a long time."

"Let me guess, she's used to being in charge?" Her insides did a little victory dance as Olivia nodded and rolled her eyes.

"You've got that right!"

"Surely she treats everyone equally, " Carol said, giving the girl a secret grin of solidarity that was echoed right back to her.

"She never listens to a word  _I_  say."

"That's terrible!" _Like a moth to a flame._  Olivia leaned in, clearly about to share what she thought would make for good gossip even though they were alone in the hall.

"This one time-" The shrill clash of a bell being repeatedly run had them both turnings towards the door they'd come through. "Damn, that's the front desk bell."

 _Daryl. Something's wrong… two to go. Shitshitshit._  The words fell out of her so quickly she was surprised the receptionist could understand her at all.

"Olivia, dear, is there a powder room I could visit? Just for a second?"

"It's up front-"

" _Please?_ " She gave her best attempt at wide-eyed earnestness as another round of bell ringing reached them. Olivia sighed, then nodded and, pulling a key from her dress pocket, quickly unlocked the matron's office.

"Mrs. Monroe has a private one. Just hurry and don't tell anyone!"

"I would  _never_ ," Carol swore solemnly. Olivia nearly shoved her through the door before pressing the key into her hand and turning to run back down to the front door.  _Yes!_  Carol shut the door and leaned against it, letting a strangled laugh erupt from her as she took a moment to recollect herself.

_Gotta hurry, Carol old girl. It's been too long._

She swept her gaze around the sparsely decorated room, taking in the expensive oak desk with the large the brass nameplate that spelled out 'Deanna Monroe' in big block letters. No plants, no bookshelves.  _Maybe the filing cabinet..._

"No, that won't work," she muttered quietly. She skimmed her hand across the desk, too aware of the small desk clock that seemed to click louder and louder as the seconds ticked by. How did twenty minutes go by? Daryl's going to kill me… She leaned down to look at the space under the desk, her hand sliding along the edge of the polished oak almost thoughtlessly until her fingers caught on something hard and round. Instinctively, her finger pressed down on the button. The click and whirl of moving mechanisms had Carol spinning on her heel, almost crashing to the floor in shock as the filing cabinet, and the wall behind it, slid to the side to reveal a dimly lit hallway. All thoughts of Daryl, of Olivia, of the time flitting through her fingers, flew out of her mind.

"Holy  _shit._ "

* * *

Daryl gnawed on the worn cuticle of his thumb as he watched Olivia argue back and forth over something mundane with the delivery man carrying the fat parcel. It was all he could do to sit still as the clock showed thirty minutes had gone by since Carol had vanished. Now the receptionist was back, but his 'wife' wasn't.  _Carol, where the fuck are you?_

* * *

Carol tiptoed down the long hallway, intuition keeping her to the shadows as she made herself as small and as quiet as possible. The sounds of lots of machines whirring and whirling, things clacking and clanging and the low rumble of men's voices' trickled down to her. It seemed to take her ages to reach what she thought had been the end of the hall, but only turned out to be a sharp corner. She pasted herself to the wall and tried to remember how to breathe.  _You're in way too deep on this one, Carol._  She should have gone back, told Daryl instantly what she'd found… but she  _was_  in too deep. She had to know.

Slowly, carefully, she moved her head and peered around the corner. The room was long, all concrete floors and walls with a low ceiling. The only light came from low hanging lamps with green lampshades on long brass poles, like she'd see at bars over the pool tables. A huge printing press sat in one corner, churning out papers that glistened with fresh green and black ink.  _They're printing fake bank notes._

The men she'd heard were huddled around a line of tables at the very far end of the room. A thick cloud of smoke enshrouded them; whatever they were doing, they'd been at it a while. Her fingers shook as she pulled at the false pocket, almost dropping the bug that landed in her hand.

 _You've got one shot at this. Think fast!_  She had to keep it away from the loud workings of the printing press, but there was no way she could turn the corner without being seen. There was another line of desks along the western wall. If she could just…

 _Bam!_ Carol shrieked, unable to help herself as a loud bang erupted from the scrum of gangsters. She clapped her hands over her mouth, the bug falling to the ground as panic threatened to overwhelm her… but she hadn't been heard over the din of noise.

"Ohgodohgod _ohgod_ ," she whispered into her hands.  _Now. Now!_  She bent down, snatched the device up and with a swing of her arm, let it fly. It skittered across the concrete floor like a rock skipping off a pond, making better distance than she'd hope for and disappearing under one of the desks just as the men started to cheer over whatever they were doing.

_You're out of time. Get out!_

She ran, flying down the hall and back into the matron's office, barely noticing as the secret door slid shut automatically behind her. She was almost out the door when she heard a clunk and spun to find the last of the six bugs gleaming up at her from the floor.

"Shit."

Carol grabbed it and turned in a circle, breathing hard as panic started to set in.  _Where… where…_  She jumped up on the desk, her whole body shaking as she reached up and pushed one of the ceiling tiles up from its frame. She shoved the listening device up the hole and slammed the tile back down, dust and bits of fluff floating down from the force of her movements and tickling her nose. She sneezed, twice, and that was when she heard it: more voices, this time right outside the door to Deanna Monroe's office.

She flung herself off the desk, cursing when her foot caught on the brass nameplate and knocked it to the floor. She was half bent to pick it up when the telltale rattle of the doorknob turning had her fleeing towards the only safe haven she could think of: Monroe's private bathroom. She made it to the tiny powder room and was closing the door just as the office door opened and two men stepped over the threshold. Carol took her hands off the bathroom door and clamped them over her mouth and nose as she tiptoed back into the dark bathroom. The door was open a crack, just enough for her to see into the office. She held her breath as the strangers, both tall, one older and bespectacled with thinning gray hair and the other with luxurious brown locks, which was all she could see of him as he stood with his back to her.

She held her breath as she forced her muscles to stay still, keeping her in the shadows as she caught snatches of their conversation over the furious thumping of her own heart.

"... sorry you missed..."

"... nothing to worry about, Reg…"

"... things moving well… think you'll be pleased…"

"... to my assistant…"

"... why is this here?" The older one, the one she thought was named Reg, bent down to pick up the nameplate she'd knocked over.  _Oh shit oh god oh my god_. "... nosy girl has been in here again…"

Spots started to dance in her vision; if she didn't breathe soon she was going to faint. Her limbs felt numb as she sucked in a slow breath through her fingers; so much slower than she wanted but the last bit of logic she could cling to was that she had to be  _careful_.

"... for your sponsorship, Mr. Heriot."

"Call me Brian, we're friends now after all…"

She watched the older man find the same button she'd discovered earlier, revealing the secret door. She'd counted to fifteen before both men, Reg and Brian if she'd heard correctly, had disappeared down the hall. She trembled as she silently pleaded with the door to  _shut, for the love of god, please shut_ , but the door stayed open.  _Too long, it's been too long, oh god_ _ **Daryl**_ _._

She took a shot, bolting from her hiding place and out the office door on feet so swift she wasn't sure they touched the ground at all until she was right outside the foyer. Nearly everything in her was screaming at her to keep running, but Daryl's warning call not to do anything memorable had her stopping long enough to force a mask of calm over her face. Her lung burned with their need for air and her muscles ached for release from the locked control she was keeping on them. If she released any bit of her control now, she'd collapse and then she'd really be fucked.

One deep breath. Two.  _Can't do anything about the flushed face now, just go._ Carol shook her head and smoothed the skirt of her dress as she stepped into the foyer. Olivia was arguing fiercely with a delivery man who was giving it right back to her, both of them gesticulating wildly over a huge parcel. She threw the key on the desk and kept walking, past the arguing idiots straight to Daryl, who was standing by the door. She had the incredible urge to fling herself into his arms and weep, but she couldn't. Not here… not  _ever_. Instead, she reached out and snatched at him as she kept moving, not stopping for a second, and literally pulled him out the door by his wrist. The burst of warm salty air that greeted her was like a hug from the very sun itself and she gasped in relief even as she marched them across the street to their car.

"What happened?" Daryl was at her side, leaning down to murmur in her ear with a voice fraught with tension. "Ya all right? What  _happened_?"

" _Not now_." She dropped his wrist as they reached the car, not waiting for him to escort her but nearly running, wrenching the car door open and throwing herself inside. It was hot and sticky inside from sitting in the sun; she couldn't care less as she sat ramrod straight in her seat, not daring to look back at the club for fear she'd see mobsters bursting out the front door with guns blazing.

"What the fuck  _happened_?!"

"Just drive, Daryl!"

He did, zipping around corners and through alleys that blurred in her vision until suddenly they were in downtown Savannah. She finally let herself breathe, huge heaving gasps that had her shaking.  _Oh. My. Christ. Was any of that real?_

"You're scarin' the  _shit_ outta me right now." Daryl's accent was thicker than she'd ever heard it, his voice heavy with worry and something she thought wildly may have been anger. "Talk to me."

Her mouth gaped open but nothing came out, the words dead on her tongue. She could only shake her head helplessly at him.

"Ya hurt? Ya  _made_? The hell  _happened_?"

He sounded like he was as undone as she was, which made her feel worse. The air in the car was too thick, too stale from being shut up in the late summer sun. Her stomach churned and bile rose up in her throat, hot and thick and sour.  _Balls._

"I'm gonna be sick," she finally choked out.

"Sonofa _bitch_." The car swung wide, horns honking angrily in their wake. Carol gripped onto the door as Daryl made two more crazy turns before the car screeched to a halt. She was out the second the engine cut off, not bothering to close the car door behind her as she pushed herself forward, gulping in deep lungfuls of air. She could barely see where she was going and she didn't really care. She just kept sucking in that heady salty air. She was shaking, the muscles in her arms and legs twitching out of her control now as she moved. She slammed into something, her hips aching with the force of contact. She reached out and felt thick wooden planks; a bench - no, a  _fence_.

Carol braced herself against the rough wood and closed her eyes, focused on easing the hot burn inside her chest and trying to remain upright. Flashes of the women's club kept reaching out to her even through closed eyes: dropping the bugs, foolish Olivia, the secret room, the men, so close, she'd been so damn close to being found…

She jumped, her eyes flying open as a pair of arms suddenly wrapped around her and pulled her back into something hard and warm. She saw only blue, stretching out as far as she could see. Blue sea meeting blue sky.

_The Atlantic. We're at the beach. How did we get to the beach?_

"You're ok. I gotcha."

She realized finally that she was shaking,  _hard_ , so hard her teeth were rattling, and the only thing keeping her on her feet at all now was Daryl.  _Daryl_ , holding her in his arms like a lover and crooning softly in her ear.

"Breathe with me. Feel how I'm breathin'? With me. In… an' out… in… an' out… There's a girl. I've got you."

Carol surrendered, leaning her head back on his shoulder and sinking against Daryl, her arms folding over his and her hands tangling in the folds of his jacket. She closed her eyes again, turned and buried her face in the side of his neck.

"'S all right, little bird. You're safe. I've got you."

* * *

_**A/N:**  A few quick tidbits for you all:_

_Daryl & Carol's back and forth about how to act during their charade is from 'Oceans 11', the bit Rusty tells Linus right before Linus poses as the NGC official at the Bellagio. It was too good to resist including in some form in this._

_The Savannah Women's Club is the fictional meeting house version of the Savannah chapter of the Junior League, an organization for women that promotes charitable causes. As far as I am aware, the SJL house has never had a secret passage to a hidden center for mob activity, even back in the 40's. That would have been totally wicked, though!_

_I also took some liberties regarding the spy bug technology. There were a few types of bugs back in the 40's. The type in question that I used as my source for Mad City run on radio waves, but were huge and took some work to install and hide. For fic purposes, I simplified things, making the bugs smaller and a bit simpler to run. Those readers who enjoy Mad City because of my thorough attention to historical detail, please forgive me for this instance of creative license. ;)_


	20. Into the River...

_**A/N:** Hello, kittens. If you're still here reading this, bless you. If you've been waiting anxiously for an update, bless you even more. But really, enough from me..._

* * *

**Chapter 20: Into the River...**

"And it's good?" Daryl braced his arm around the call box in the phone booth and rested his head on his arm, listening to Morales' excited tones in his ear.

"Yeah, yeah, all six receivers comin' in loud and clear. Dame did a hell of a job. It's gold, Daryl, solid gold."

Relief poured through him, leaving him shaking and dizzy in the sweltering heat of the phone booth. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and focused on the figure of Carol, blurry through the scratched and warped glass, while Morales' chattered on about technical things like radio waves that he barely understood.

They'd walked, arm in arm, along the seaside, past quaint shops and stands until they'd found a little seaside cafe with a few tables set outside near the beach. Carol, with a solemn fierceness that had fallen over her since she'd cried herself out on his shoulder, had asked the waitress for a napkin and a pen before the girl could even introduce herself and, upon receiving the requested items, had hunched over the weathered table and started sketching away without a word or even a look in his direction.

Despite the waves of relief, the feeling of danger that had settled over him like a dark cloud still lingered.

"Get back to the hotel," Daryl said, interrupting Morales mid sentence. "Get our stuff together. We'll meetcha at the back door in half an hour."

"Big hurry, chief?"

"No point in overstayin' our welcome, is there? Thirty, tops." He hung up the phone and pushed his way out of the box with a gasp, enjoying the sudden gush of fresh air. Carol sat back with a sigh just as he reached the table and sank into the chair across from her.

"Ya alright?"

She shook her head, then nodded, then shook it again. He could barely contain his smirk despite himself. He knew that look. It was the same look everyone had their first time. He gave a quick glance around to make sure they were alone before he folded his arms and leaned across the table.

"My first was a simple snatch and grab. Easy in, easy out, nobody s'posed to be home. 'Cakewalk', Merle said."

She was zeroed in on him now, those eyes of robin's egg blue searching his face hard enough to set him blushing."

"Was it?"

"Yeah," Daryl chuckled. "Went off without a hitch, just like they said it would. Didn't stop me from losing my guts after."

"You threw up?" She was almost smiling at him now, relaxing, just like he'd wanted.

"Right there in the street… Was with this guy Mac, got it all over his shoes. Thought he was gonna knock my block off."

"He probably would have, if you'd been anyone else," Carol laughed softly.  _There she is_. Daryl smiled and nodded.

"Probably," he allowed. "Better?" She smiled at him and, call him crazy, but that smile felt special. Like she was saving that smile just for him, and nobody else would get it. Just him.

"Better. Thank you." He couldn't remember the last time he'd been thanked with half the genuine feeling behind it that Carol had just given him. He was personally responsible for her predicament and here she was thanking him for taking the edge off? She was always unpredictable, always surprising him and every day it got harder and harder to stay on level footing around her.

"Ready to show me whatcha got there, Picasso?"

She slid the napkin she'd been so focused on across the table in response, her fingers brushing against his as he took it from her. Warm and soft, that's what she was. The tiny touch was enough to send sparks shooting up his arm.

That same feeling of the rubber band in his stomach, stretched to the brink and ready to break.

 _Think, fool. You still gotta get both of you home._  Daryl lifted his hand to see the hastily drawn map she'd inked onto the thin linen.

"That's all I can remember."

He stared at the map, nearly identical to the blueprints they'd poured over just yesterday, focusing on the new details.

"This…"  _Holy fucking hell, when did this get there?_  Daryl reached out and grabbed Carol's hand in his, rubbing his thumb along the fake wedding ring as he pulled her towards him so their heads met over the table. He raised her hand to hover just in front of his lips, posing them to look as much like a couple having a sweet tender moment together as he could. "That room shouldn't exist. How did ya find this?"

"In the matron's office. There was a secret door in the wall. The switch for the door was hidden on her desk," Carol whispered. "The room at the end… there were men, lots of them. Tables… and a printing press."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah… Managed to get a bug in there before I ran for it."

_Holy shit._

"You… what?"

She was  _grinning_  at him over their clasped hands, the solemn mask gone and her eyes dancing with mischief and a little pride.  _Goddamn._

"Not bad for a first timer, huh?"

His brilliant, brave little bird. He wanted to kiss her.  _Needed_  to, his whole body screaming out for it. She was so close he could almost taste her. Just the slightest tug on her hand would be enough momentum-

"My manager says if you're not going to order then you can't sit here." The waitress, a girl barely out of her girlhood plaits and school uniforms, was giving Carol a look of sullen resentment.  _Seven fucking hells._

"Then I guess we ain't sittin' here," Daryl said shortly, dropping Carol's hand and stuffing the napkin map into his breast pocket. The chair slid back with a squeal and he stood; an impatient jerk of his head had the girl dashing inside.  _Children._ He set a brisk pace back towards their car as soon as Carol was on her feet, his hand hovering over the small of her back to usher her along.

"What-"

"Car first."

It was starting to be too much for him, the bits and pieces of the job, the implications of Carol's discovery and the lady herself making his heart and head pound until he was sure one or the other would burst.

_Time to get out of here._

* * *

"That's him?"

Caesar Martinez nodded, watching the Hispanic fellow talk to the younger Dixon brother. Fools, both of them, thinking they were still safe here. Savannah didn't belong to Hershel Greene anymore. Soon they'd have the big prize, the crown jewel itself: Atlanta.

"The Governor doesn't want them to make it back to Atlanta," Martinez said to the tall, dark man at his left. New in the ranks, but full of promise. " _Something Schumpert"_ , he was bad with names, but it wasn't important. All that mattered was what Blake wanted.

"Consider it done."

There was someone else in the car that he couldn't make out, but they didn't matter. Collateral damage was expected in times of war.

* * *

Finally,  _finally_ , they were ready to go. Daryl couldn't shake the feeling they were being watched, even though he hadn't seen a damn thing to give him that impression. Carol had told her tale of what had happened in the bowels of the club and it was enough to leave him  _and_  Morales shaking in their shoes. Daryl had seen for himself the setup Morales had established to record from the devices Carol had planted and was confident in the men selected to run the room. It was enough; now he wanted nothing more than to be on the road to Atlanta, and safety, as quickly as possible.

"Ya sure none of the names ring a bell?" Daryl asked Morales for the hundredth time.

"Not off the top of my head, but I'll figure it out," Morales reassured him. "It's all aces, man. Skirt knocked it right outta the park. She's really something."

"She's somethin', all right," Daryl said. He grabbed his companion's hand for a firm shake of farewell. " _Gracias, mi amigo._ "

" _De nada_. Now get your ass home."

Daryl nodded and strode to the car without a further word. The luggage was in the back, Carol was already inside and ready to go.  _Thank the good lord._  They'd been here too long; the sun was too low in the sky, it's light just starting to turn that burnished orange to signal the end of the day.  _Gonna be midnight before we get our asses home at this rate._

The streets were thick with traffic, average joes headed home after the day's work to their cookie cutter houses, picture perfect wives ready to set the table with pot roast and collard greens. It was an image Daryl both loathed and envied, especially today. What he wouldn't give to feel normal for a change.

The stop and go traffic was increasing his headache. He shook his head and flicked the knob on the radio. The sound of trumpets and a women's clear voice rang through the car for seconds before Carol reached out and jabbed at the tuner, cutting off the music and leaving them to the echoes of horns and brakes to filter through from outside as she settled back into the same distant pose she'd kept before.

"What?"

"I just really want to get out of here," Carol said softly. "Can't you feel it?"

She was learning. He was incredibly proud... and profoundly sad, all at once.

"Wish you didn't," he said, just loud enough for her to pick up. "Shouldn't be somethin' you had to learn."

They turned a corner and finally saw the cause of the traffic build up: construction along the main road to the highway. Workers in yellow hard hats milled about while signs and makeshift blockades had all the traffic merging into a single lane. As they slowly crept past, Daryl could see the huge trench being dug right alongside the road. His stomach clenched in a hard knot.

Morales had never mentioned upcoming construction. Their contacts in the city had provided a full list of upcoming projects. Most of them went through  _him_  on their way to the old man for his approval. Daryl took advantage of the slow traffic to take in as many details as he could. No actual work was being done at the moment, just lots of men standing around the work zone.  _There's too many here._  The constructions workers were paying far too much attention to their car, he decided. His Colt was fully loaded, tucked safely away in his back holster, and he had a Beretta in the glove compartment.

"Daryl?"

"Nothin'." He shook his head, keeping his face casually calm. "Jus' thinkin'." It was a worry she didn't need and if they were lucky, it might prove to be one he didn't need either. Lady Luck had been with them all day. He prayed she'd stick around just a little longer.

* * *

"Goddammit, Eugene!" Shane cursed and threw his crumpled hat down on the aforementioned man's desk, rubbing his hand across his head. "How the hell does a schmoe like you keep his job, anyhow?"

"Detective Walsh, I am requestin' once again that you not to throw your things onto my work station."

Shane was fuming, pacing back and forth in front of the clerk's desk. He was sure smoke was literally coming out of his ears at this point. Eugene Porter was a lowlife out-of-towner, a two-bit dick who didn't deserve the job he had and, worse, was shitty at that job. Shane wasn't sure how the man had gotten his badge in the first place. Eugene been demoted twice already and now served his route as the records clerk for the Atlanta PD.

"Lemme ask you somethin', man." Shane placed both palms flat on the desk and leaned forward until his nose was less than an inch from the pudgy man's. "How does the fucking records clerk  _lose_  a freshly signed warrant?"

"Detective-"

"Lemme ask you somethin' else," Shane growled softly. "How you planning to eat your next meal without any  _fucking teeth_?"

Eugene's eyes bugged in his pallid face, his eyes darting everywhere as he looked desperately for an escape Shane knew didn't exist.

"I-I'll look again."

"You do that."

He was getting into the Peletier house by the next morning, one way or another.

* * *

They were an hour and a half or so outside of Savannah when Carol finally cracked, burying her face in her hands to muffle her laughter.

"I miss somethin'?" Daryl asked as he reached up to finally loosen the knot in his tie. She'd been as quiet as a church mouse for the past hour; they both had, lost in their own thoughts.

"It's just… It's over, right? We can relax now?"

Just like he'd suspected. First the meltdown, then the pride, now came the relief.

"Yeah," Daryl said. "We can relax." He wouldn't breathe easy again for several hours yet, not until the bright lights of Atlanta were in view, but it was a start.

"It's really over?"

"It's really over."

"And I-"

"Hey," Daryl interrupted gently, sensing Carol could have gone on in that vein for a while. He took her hand in his and brought it up to his lips, like he had before by the beach; except this time he let his mouth touch the smooth warmth of her skin, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. "You did  _great_. Better than most fellas their first gig out."

Carol smiled at him, his smile again, and bit her lip just long enough to get him stirring in his pants. He let her pull her hand back and tried to remember how to breathe.

"Well, since I did so great and all, you won't be terribly offended if I celebrate a bit?"

"What, you want me to stop for champagne and caviar?"

"Have you eaten caviar before?"

"Not once," Daryl admitted with a laugh. "Eatin' fish eggs just don't seem right to me."

"Me either."

They were both laughing now, their voices clear and happy and full of relief. They could have been just two normal people headed home after a nice vacation. The weight of the fake wedding ring Daryl still wore on his left hand seemed to double and he rubbed his thumb along the shiny gold band as his laughter faded away. He changed lanes and glanced in the rearview mirror just in time to see a dark blue Cadillac, about 4 cars back, change to the same lane. It was enough to set his inner alarm bells off.  _Keep it together. Could be nothing…_

"So no caviar and no champagne for a job well done," Daryl said casually. The road signs ahead showed they were almost to Swainsboro, which meant they had one shot for an alternate route. He just hoped Carol didn't notice… and that the blue Cadillac didn't turn out to be what he was afraid of. "So how ya plannin' to celebrate, then?"

"Well, Mr. Dixon," Carol announced dramatically, still on her happy high. "I am going to celebrate by taking off these  _horrible_  shoes."

"Hey now! Simmer down there, wildcat!" Daryl played along as he pulled them abruptly off the 80 and onto the 1. To his great relief, the blue Cadillac didn't follow and he quickly lost sight of it as it continued along the 80.  _Thank God._ Daryl sighed and smiled as Carol threw her shoes and her day coat, both the same navy blue as her dress, into the backseat. She cranked down the window enough to let the warm summer breeze ruffle through her hair as she leaned back with her arms behind her head and kicked her feet up on the dashboard.

"Simmer down yourself, bub," she shot back. " _I'm_  celebrating."

Her feet up on the dash like that had caused the skirt of her dress to slide up, giving him a tantalizing view of her long, slender legs in their silk stockings. Daryl sucked in a deep breath as all his blood rushed south.  _She's got no idea how beautiful she is._  He shifted forward, flicking the radio back on and taking the chance to adjust himself without her noticing.

"Celebrate away, little bird. You've earned it."

"Thank you, Mr. Dixon-"

"Stop." He threw her a warning glare that held no heat, given the smirk he knew was showing on his face.

"Daryl." He loved the sound of his name in her voice. "As for you…" She reached up and deftly snatched his fedora from his head, tossing it in the backseat with her shoes.

"Hey!"

"No hat," she chided gently. "It's a celebration, after all."

She was perfect like this, the wind making her curls dance on her shoulders, her face flushed and smiling. He wondered if she'd look like this after he'd been inside of her.

 _Whoa, kid. Can't think like that._ He'd already been too casual with Carol the last few days, giving her reassuring touches and letting her touch him. Holding her, feeling how perfectly she fit in his arms…

"Fine then. Just 'cause we're celebratin' and all."

 _Good lord, boy._  Merle's voice in his head again.  _You are in a heap of trouble._

* * *

Schumpert drove the Cadillac one mile up the 80 before turning the vehicle mid-traffic, ignoring the honks and blares from the other cars, and floored the gas pedal. He quickly veered onto the 1, following the path Dixon's car had taken.

It wouldn't take him long to catch up.

* * *

"Are you proud?" Carol asked suddenly. "When you finish a job, do you feel like this?"

That was a loaded question if he'd ever heard one. Daryl huffed and bit the inside of his cheek, thinking his options over before he decided honesty wouldn't hurt here.

"Sometimes," he allowed. "Depends on the job. Mostly I'm just ready for a drink after." He could see how seriously she took his words, nodding her head and staring out the window. The moon was out now, a good full moon that gave definition to the shadows outside.

"What about the others? How do  _they_ feel after?"

"Can't really answer that. S'pose you'll just have to ask 'em." He already knew it would be a cold day in hell when that happened.

"Ha," Carol puffed. "Not likely."

They drove alone, the music warbling in from the radio sounding like it was coming from a tin can. It was better than silence, he supposed. He always liked driving to music, unless he was on the job.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Somethin'  _else_?" Daryl arched an eyebrow at his companion, who had the decency to blush just a little. "Yeah, go ahead."

"Why do you work for Hershel Greene?"

He needed to revise his earlier thought.  _This_  was the loaded question… one he couldn't answer. Not even for her.

"Pass," he said. She just hummed and nodded like he hadn't surprised her at all with his response. She was fiddling with the radio, hunting for a clearer signal, when he decided to ask one of his own.

"Why?"

She twisted in her chair so her back was against the door. Strands of her hair, pulled loose from the stream of wind through the open window, blew across her face but she made no move to stop them.

"Because you don't fit," Carol said finally. "You're better than the rest of them."

"Oh really?"  _The hell was she on about?_

"I've lived with you for months now," she said. "You're not some hustler or con-man or thug like the others. You try to play the bad boy, but it doesn't fit you well. It's like the suit that's been tailored for someone else. You  _care_  about the people under Greene's thumb, people like me."

He had nothing, no witty comeback, couldn't even work up enough to brush her off or order her to stop.  _This_  was what she saw in him?  _Say something._

"You think that?"  _Not that!_

"I know that," she said firmly. "You wouldn't lie to me and I wouldn't lie to you."

"Oh hell, little bird, if that's how you're doin' this then we got problems," he said. "I lied to you earlier today."

"When?"

"When I said I wouldn't let you go in there if you weren't ready."  _Oh shit._ He hadn't meant to let that slip. This is what she did to him all the time: surprised him, make him drop the mask and fumble like a school boy in front of her. There was no way on this whole wide earth that he could have prevented Carol from going on this mission, short of shooting her first or taking her and running away to Canada. He knew that the moment Greene gave him the final orders. A glance at Carol's face told him that she knew the truth of it right then and there. So why was she smiling.

"Nope," she said, shaking her head. "I don't buy that. You'd have found a way. You're a decent man, Daryl Dixon. You just don't know it yet." She shifted back in her seat and rolled up the window before kicking her feet back up on the dash and laying back with her eyes closed.

Not once in his life had anyone ever called him a decent man. Part of him half wondered if she was kidding… but he knew that wasn't her way.

 _You're a decent man._ This was how she saw him, despite everything that had happened, the role he'd played in her forced servitude. If she kept this up, he was going to fall head over heels in love with her. Despite his attraction, the pull he felt towards her, it  _couldn't_ be love. Dixons didn't love, they didn't know how… and it would get them both killed if he did.

The rubber band in his belly stretched a shade tighter. Impossible, and yet...

Carol was humming along to the familiar strains 'La Vie En Rose' on the radio. He liked this song himself, the warmth of Louis Armstrong's sweet, slow drawl working it's magic in his veins. Daryl was smiling despite himself, enjoying the winding road and looked up into the rearview mirror in time to see the headlights abruptly jerk behind their car.  _It can't be…_

Daryl scanned the road ahead as he shifted the gear stick and pressed down on the accelerator. The faster he went, the faster the car behind him went. Carol was oblivious, lightly drowsing in her seat. It was hard to see, to know for sure until a vehicle going the other way passed them, the headlights shining on the car chasing them enough for Daryl to see the blue paint and the distinctive shape of a Cadillac.

"Goddammit."

He swerved a hard right, getting them off the highway and jolting Carol awake in the process.

"Daryl? What's happening?" Carol asked as she fumbled to sit upright and get her bearings. He turned again, and watched grimly as the Cadillac followed, like he knew it would.

"Our luck just ran out."

"What?"

They were in the dark now, nothing but the moon and their own car lamps to light the road ahead as the landscape cloaked in shadows raced by. The speedometer climbed to seventy, eighty and still the lights stayed behind them, grew closer. Too close.

"Duck."

"Wha-"

"Now!" Daryl reached out and grabbed Carol by the neck, pushing her down over her knees and crouching down himself just as the first bullet crashed through the back windshield, shattering the glass. Carol shrieked and threw her arms up to cover her head. He reached for his Colt and sat up, twisting in his chair to fire back once, twice.

" _Daryl!_ "

 _Fuck._ He turned again, dropped the gun in his lap and yanked on the steering wheel, just barely keeping the car on the road. The Chevy lurched, the gears grinding as the road tilted sharply uphill. Daryl raised his arm to fire again just as a second pair of headlights appeared behind the Cadillac.

"Sonofa _bitch_."

The other car swerved into the opposite lane and pulled level with the Cadi. His instincts kicked in and he dropped, reaching over to cover Carol with his body as much as he could and still trying to steer the car as the windows shattered, the roar of a machine gun as loud as a lion freed from it's cage. Bullets burst through the back doors, tearing everything in their paths apart and scattering them with debris. His heart was racing, blood thundering in his ears and drowning out Carol's cries as he spun the wheel as hard as he could. The car spun and Daryl raised up and emptied the clip in his gun at both of the chasing cars. His scored a hit on the second car, the headlights disappearing as the front of the car burst in a cloud of smoke. The Cadillac was still coming. Daryl kept them in the spin until they were forward again and floored it. The car shuddered beneath them but obeyed his commands, rushing onward with a squeal.

"There's a black case in the glove compartment," he barked out.

Carol,  _bless her_ , obeyed instantly, tearing the little door open and grabbing the case. She pulled out the Beretta and instantly held it out to him. Her face was dead white but her hands were steady as he took the gun from her. The hill finally ended and the road leveled out to reveal the narrow expanse of an old bridge ahead; below, the deep rushing waters of the Oconee River.

"Tell me ya know how to reload a gun," Daryl begged as he dropped the empty Colt in his lap. He glanced over to see Carol shaking her head.  _Damn. Six slugs. Make 'em count._

Just as he started to twist around to fire again, he heard the telltale bang and pop of a tire exploding just as they hit the bridge. The car spun and squealed, the pistol dropping into the backseat and he threw both hands on the wheel and tried to control the Chevy. It cost him speed, only for a moment, but it was enough. Just as he got it straightened out, he looked up and realized it was too late.

With a bang, the other car smashed into the back end, sending them spinning across the old wooden bridge. Daryl felt the car turn traitor beneath him, the steering wheel under his clenched fingers not obeying his commands as the tires skidded and spun out of control to send them hurtling through the bridge railing and into the swirling black waters of the river below.

_Jesus fuck. We're dead._

* * *

_**A/N 2:**_   _Some additional info, as always:_

_Louis Armstrong didn't record his cover of Edith Piaf's 'La Vie En Rose' until 1950. However, I love the song so much I decided I didn't care. Given that the divine Ms. Piaf recorded the song in 1945 and since this takes place in 1947, I'm declaring author's privilege._

_My amazing, talented wonderful beta imorca (whom I cannot live without and who should be sainted for putting up with me at this point) asked me during her review of my chapter if cars had seat belts in the 1940s. I knew the general answer was no, but decided to do some extra research. The UC Berkeley Traffic Safety Center reports that seat belts first appeared in American cars in the early 1900s but were considered a luxury custom item. The first American vehicle to include factory-installed seat belts were introduced in 1950, by now defunct American auto maker Nash. Seat belts weren't required by law until 1966._

_It is ridiculous how much I love each and everyone who reads this story. You guys have no idea how much you keep me going. Thank you from the bottom of my heart!_


	21. ...And Out of the Woods

_**A/N:**  For everyone who has patiently been waiting and wading through 20 chapters of sexual tension, this one is for you. To every reader, every one who has taken the time to review this story, you've won all my love._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter 21: … And Out of the Woods**

The night was clear enough Carol could count the stars even through the cracked windshield, twinkling blithely above her without a care in the world. She barely noticed that her feet were cold or that her hair was wet. She counted out the seven stars that marked the Big Dipper. The same stars she remembered as a girl looking up at the sky between low hanging branches, where everything around her was the clean tang of oranges and she'd yet to know the blow of a man's fist against her cheek.

 _There's the handle and the box. From there…_ She let her eyes trace a path across the sky and almost smiled when she found what she was looking for: the bright shimmer of the North Star. The one fixed point in the whole sky. She stayed focused on that light as the rest of the stars started to swirl in rhythm to the white noise in her ears…

" _Carol!_ "

She slammed into the door as the car lurched, the weight of the water spinning them even as they sank further and further down. She suddenly realized the ache in her chest was  _her_ , the sound of her own panicked gasps finally breaking through her consciousness to mingle with the gushing deep roar of the Oconee river sucking them into its depths. Water was pouring in through every crack and crevice, murky and icy cold despite the summer heat.

They weren't dead. She wasn't laying in the California orange groves counting stars. She was in a sinking car, about to drown in a river. This was  _real_  and she was  _here_ and so was Daryl. Daryl, who was talking even as the car rolled again, telling her they had to wait until the pressure was even outside and inside the car before they could get out, that she had to stay with him and he was going to get them out of there. The Chevy's metal groaned as it shifted under the growing weight of water, leaving them even and almost floating in the river. Through the wall of air bubbles escaping to the surface she could barely make out the long tendrils of underwater reeds and weeds, illuminated from the still lit headlamps and wafting with the current.

"I'm with you." Her mouth formed the words and gave them voice before she could even think.  _You can't swim_. It didn't matter, really. What did? This, them.  _Him_. "I trust you."

Carol reached out and laid her hand over Daryl's where it braced tight against the dashboard. His eyes were blue fire when he looked back at her. To her surprise, she realized she meant every word.

"I trust you," she said again. He nodded, his thumb brushing across her fingers. The water was up to their chests.

"You hold on." The sheer determination in his voice gave her hope even as tears sprang to her eyes. She nodded, her chin brushing the water that now lapped around her shoulders. She felt the hard clench of his fingers around her wrist and summoned all her courage to suck in one last, deep lungful of air.

She kicked against the door, pushing herself against Daryl and latching her free hand onto his shoulder as he pushed his door open and pulled them into the river.

Everything went dark and quiet, light and sound fleeing from them and leaving them defenseless in the strange depths of the Oconee. The thick slimy weeds brushed against her legs, her arms, threatening to tangle her up and drown her. Her lungs were hot balls of agony, desperate for breath, and she finally closed her eyes against the burn of the water.

_You hold on._

She did, the solid feel of Daryl under her hands the only thing keeping her from panicking completely. She let him control her, pushing and pulling her as he fought back against the strong current. She kicked her legs, trying to help them along as best she could.

_You hold on._

Her chest was on fire with the need for air. Up or down, she couldn't tell which way was what as her body was wrestled between Daryl and the current.  _Have to get out, have to get out._

_You hold on._

It was endless, this alien dark. They were never going to get out.  _Have to get out!_

_You hold on._

It was too much. Her mouth opened in a silent scream and water gushed in.

The world went black.

* * *

She'd always liked the peach grove behind the house. It was the one thing she could say she truly loved about the place. She sat on the worn bench and watched Sophia dance in the clearing. The sun was cool, the light moving across them almost like ( _like water)_  a dream.

It was so good to see Sophia dance again. She never danced anymore.  _'Mama I can't move my legs. Mama!'_

_"_ _Carol."_

"Mama." Her daughter was in front of her now, with those big blue eyes looking up at her. "You need to wake up now."

_"_ _Come on, Carol, please!"_

"I am awake," she said. She reached out to brush Sophia's hair off her forehead, leaving damp streaks on the girl's skin. Her hand was wet and she looked down to see her navy blue dress was soaked ( _from the river the river oh can't breathe_ ) and clinging to her like a second skin.

_"_ _Open your eyes, little bird. Please, love, open your eyes."_

"Open your eyes, Mama." Sophia smiled and leaned over to give her a kiss-

-Water bubbled out of Carol's mouth as her eyes flew open. Everything was blurry, too blurry. Her stomach churned. Hands were pulling at her, turning her as she choked and emptied her stomach of bile and what felt like half the Oconee river onto the wet soil beneath her. Her fingers clawed into the mud as she heaved.

"Carol. Thank god."

Daryl was rubbing his hand lightly across her back. She was still half in the river, the cold water lapping at her thighs. Her throat felt scraped raw when she was done, her stomach sore. She wanted to sleep, to close her eyes and sleep like the princess from the fairy tale for a hundred years.

"We gotta move. Now, right now." Daryl was whispering urgently as he pulled her to her feet. She was shaking so badly she couldn't stand and fell against him as he half carried her into a copse of trees. He pushed her up against the thick trunk of a tree and pushed her hair back, his hands cradling her face.  _He looks so worried…_

"Can ya stand?"  _Why is he whispering?_ "Little bird?"

"I'm here," she panted. It hurt to speak, to breathe, but she managed, pushing herself even as she let the tree take her weight. "I'm still here."

Daryl leaned in and kissed her on the forehead, his lips fierce and rough but so warm on her skin. It gave her a jolt, the pull to connect the circuit between them as strong as the pull of the river had been. He pulled away and gripped her shoulders tightly.

"Stay here. Don't move."

"Dar-"

The sharp crack of twigs breaking under a heavy foot pulled their attention from each other. Daryl swore and pushed her back behind the tree. Carol fell, dirt and leave smearing across her dress. Everything rushed back - the car, the shooting, going off the bridge - and she gasped as the heavy thump of bone meeting bone reached her.  _Daryl. The other car…_

Carol scrambled unsteadily to her feet and peered around the tree. Daryl was locked in a struggle with a stranger: squat and heavy with dark skin and hair. She winced as he landed a punch to Daryl's jaw. Daryl sent an elbow into the man's gut, making him double over. A fist here, an elbow there.

There was a pistol on the ground at their feet. It was kicked again and again as they scuffled around it.  _You could get it. You could-_ She could barely move. She tried to push herself off the tree and nearly collapsed.

"Daryl!" She couldn't help it, she cried out just loud enough to be heard as she caught herself against the tree, scraping her hands on the rough bark. The stranger turned towards her, his eyes widening as he took her in. Daryl swung a roundhouse punch that knocked the man off his feet. Her gangster pounced, pressing down and pinning the thug in the dirt even as he tried to grab for the pistol that lay just outside of his reach.

"Who sent you?" Daryl snarled.

" _Fuck off_." The stranger groaned as Daryl sent a solid fist into his chest.

"Who sent you?!"

Carol watched the man shove, _hard_ , hard enough to shift Daryl's balance just enough to break free, but only for a moment. Daryl was stronger, faster and had the man in a headlock before he could get to his feet.

"Start talkin'," Daryl demanded.

"You're dead," the man choked out. "Both of you, you and your bitch-"

 _Crack!_  The stranger fell in a heap at Daryl's feet, his head cocked at an unnatural angle and his eyes open right at her but seeing nothing.  _So that's what a man with a broken neck looks like._

She wondered who he had been. One of Blake's men; she knew that without a doubt. Still, he'd been  _someone_. A man with a name, maybe a family somewhere, friends. Someone with a past… and no future. Daryl had done that. Daryl had killed him with his bare hands. Daryl, who had saved her life twice tonight.

Daryl, who was panting for breath and eyeing her warily, like she was about to start running or screaming. Or both.

Carol pushed herself off the tree and stumbled forward, stepping over the dead man to throw her arms around Daryl and pull him tight into her.

"Are you ok?"

He let out a surprised laugh, winding his arms around her and hugging her back just as fiercely as he buried his face in her hair.

" _Me?_  Hell with me, are  _you_  all right?"

She nodded, clenching the sodden wool of his jacket in her fist. It didn't matter to her that they were both panting, soaked to the bone, shaking and shivering. She felt his pulse beat steadily where her cheek pressed against his neck and felt her heart thrum in response.

They were still here.

Carol looked over Daryl's shoulder and was surprised to see how far downriver they'd come. The bridge was small in the distance and she swore she could make out the faint glow of lights shining from the depths of the river.  _Their car._  There was another car on the bridge, right by the hole in the railing where they'd smashed through. As she watched, a second car pulled up to it and several figured poured out, like clowns from a small car. She pulled herself from Daryl's grasp, missing the feel of him instantly and gestured for him to look.

"Damn," Daryl muttered. They could hear faint shouts from the bridge before the night came alive with the clatter of gunfire. They were firing into the water.  _For us_ , Carol realized.

"Time to go." Daryl reached down and snatched up the dead man's pistol before grabbing her hand and pulling her into the unfamiliar depths of the Georgian woods.

* * *

Thom Crowley sat at the dining table, chewing his way through his third apple. He liked apples. Some men likes their cigarettes or their whiskey, some needed the touch of a woman or a snort of powder to clear their heads. His needs were simple: just the tart taste of ripe apples was enough for him. It helped him think.

He had to give credit where credit was due. Daryl really hadn't done a bad job running things without Merle. The situation was just fucked as all hell to begin with.  _Fucking Merle taking a fucking slug to the chest. What timing._

Merle had gotten cocky,  _sloppy_. That's what happens when you think you can run things like the boss. Money, fame, even infamy, it all went to your head in the end. Look at Capone, Luciano, Nucky. Hell, even Siegel was gone now, two months into his dirt nap. Lansky, now that was a sharp cookie, but the rest of them were schmoes. They could have had the world at their fingertips if they'd just stayed  _sharp_.

He picked up a fourth apple and bit down, relishing the sweet, crisp taste in his mouth as he pulled the top file from the stack at his elbow, flicking it open to stare down at the black and white photograph again. Somebody else might not think a thing about this particular snap, a fella and a dame chatting it up on the streets of Atlanta. He knew better.

"Axel," Crowley called out. The man himself appeared in seconds, standing in the entryway from the kitchen. A plate piled high with the widow's leftovers was balanced in his hands. "Call Theodore. We gotta talk to the old man."

For once the Texan didn't talk his ear off, just went back to the kitchen. Crowley wasn't worried. Axel was a chatterbox but he got shit done.

"Well, Detective Walsh," he said around a mouthful of fruit, studying the photograph. "Wonder what you could possibly have to say to dear old Mrs. Greene?"

It wouldn't take him long to find out. He let the picture of Lori Greene and Shane Walsh outside the Hibernian drop to the table and grabbed up another file. He licked the apple juice from his fingers, grabbed the stub of a pencil and scribbled in the margins of the folder. Another problem, if Theodore's gossip was true.

_Carol Peletier._

* * *

"Take a second," Daryl panted as they came to a stop.  _Should be far enough._ Carol was coughing, wheezing so bad his own ribs ached in sympathy. He knew she was worse off than he was but she hadn't complained a bit since she'd come to with a gasp in the riverbed and heaved her guts out.

They'd crossed the Oconee river at another bridge and had stayed in the deep woods for several miles now. He knew it was late, so late they should have been almost home by now. His watch had stopped, the little cogs and wheels ruined by the river water. A quick glance to the sky told him it had to be past midnight by now.

He peeled his suit jacket from the body and let the soaked wool fall to the ground with a wet smack.  _A hundred bucks and now its just garbage. Some life, kid._  He heard a groan and spun to see Carol doubled over on a log, clutching her ribs.  _Damn, pushed her too hard._

"Hey,  _hey_." He knelt in front of her, pushing worriedly at her shoulders. She hadn't said a word, not a single word during their run from Blake's thugs. She waved a hand, trying to smile.

"I'll be ok in a minute," she panted. "Had worse."

Of course she had. Fuck, he wanted to kill Ed Peletier all over again. He'd make the son of a bitch suffer twice as long as he had the first time and take double relish with each blow. He wanted to hear Ed beg and plead and cry again. Dozens of deaths on his hands, by his hands, and he knew that was one of the few he'd even the men at the pearly gates could never make him regret.

"Take your time," he said softly.

"They're not…"

"Oh, they probably are, but they're a buncha city boys. Can't track for shit."

"And you can?" She was starting to sound better, less wheezy, but  _lord_  she was so pale. She'd been so close. There on the riverbed, he'd thought…  _Knock it off._  He settled himself of the moss-covered log beside Carol and started to neatly roll up his shirtsleeves to the elbow.

"Used to trek all up and down the woods when I was a boy," he said. "My grandpappy taught me and Merle huntin' and trackin' before we could read."

"I can see that," Carol said softly. "You all bundled up and trotting after your grandfather with a big old hunting rifle."

He picked up the mess of his jacket and started rummaging through the pockets.

"Naw," Daryl said as he pulled out his flask and gold cigarette case. "Grandpappy was a real case. No guns for huntin'. Had me a lil' crossbow and some bolts he'd made. Said they were real huntin' tools."

 _Wouldn't mind havin' that old crossbow right about now._ He pulled out the pistol he'd swiped from the corpse of Blake's chump and started to check it. Three bullets.  _Least its three more than we got before_. His Colt was gone, hell  _all_  their stuff was gone, lost to the dreary waters of the Oconee. He had a switchblade in his pocket and a corpse's Smith & Wesson pistol with three bullets.  _Swell._

"You miss him."

Daryl turned and found himself almost nose to nose with Carol. She was so close he could see the pattern of freckles splayed across her nose. His belly ached, his nerves where Carol was concerned pulled too tight to stand any longer. He wanted…  _oh god, how he wanted…_

"Yeah," he breathed. _Grandpappy_. Tall and white haired, always with a big straw hat on his head. Strong, so strong. People had  _liked_  Grandpappy despite his gruff nature… what they knew of him. It was Pa that had ruined that, had turned the Dixon name to mud. Daryl smirked as a thought came to him. "Poor man's Hershel Greene."

He knew, instantly, it had been the wrong thing to say. Carol blinked and jerked her head back, putting enough space between them that reality crashed over him like a wave. He couldn't begin to decipher the look in her eyes as they searched his, but he could practically hear the wheels turning in her head. He'd let too much slip, and lord help him but it was something he hadn't even  _realized_  about himself until now.

Hershel Greene reminded him of his grandfather.

"Do you know where we're going?" Carol said briskly as she turned away from him. He felt the icy wall of her resistance land between them, keeping her in a place he wasn't sure he could reach. He wanted to rail, to scream and bash down at that wall until she was looking at him the way she had before. Warm, soft, looking at him like he  _mattered_. If she hadn't seen those men at the bridge, if they hadn't had to run for their lives… He'd have kissed her there, if he'd only had a few more seconds.

A dozen chances with Carol, and he'd screwed up every one.

"There's a safe house not far from here," he said slowly. "A few miles, less if we keep goin' cross country."

Carol reached under the hem of her dress and pulled down her ruined stockings, leaving the clear, creamy skin bare to the night breeze. If he didn't touch her soon, he was going to end up with the nutters in their straightjackets. He needed her.

He needed Greene, too. He wasn't sure which one he needed more right now.

* * *

"Tell me their names."

The girl sobbed, struggling weakly against the bonds that kept her in the chair.

"Black, it was B-Black.  _David and Karen Black_. Th-th-that's what they s-said, I  _swear,_  that's what they said…"

Blake sat back and tuned out the receptionist's inane blubbering. He could hardly believe it, but his boys had gone through the whole damn place alongside a shaking Deanna Monroe, who swore everything was right where it should be. If they didn't take anything… He turned to Martinez, standing like the good loyal dog he was at his right hand.

"Sweep the building," he said over the girl's cries. "See if they left a present lying around."

Martinez nodded. Such a good dog. He turned back to the chubby girl, leaning forward to stroke her hair.

"Olivia, sweet Olivia," he crooned. "Where did you take them?"

"It was j-just her, just the w-wife. I gave he-her the tour, she said she w-wanted to s-see… p-p-please let me go now," Olivia sobbed.

Blake ignored her to stand and button up his brown suit, the polished professional ready to make his appearance again. He could have been a banker or a politician. He'd been both, once, in days past.

"Mrs. Monroe needs to hire a new receptionist," he said idly to Martinez.

He left the room but could still hear the rapport of the gunshot echo off the walls behind him, silencing Olivia's cries.

* * *

"It looks like snow," Carol said quietly.

Cotton fields stretched out on either side of them, gleaming in the moonlight. The bolls were thick, ready for picking. If it wasn't for the lingering heat from the summer day, he could have imagined it was snow, too. Tufts of fluffy whiteness littered the ground and floated in the air. She'd had pulled her curls free of their hairpins and now they fell in wavy tendrils around her shoulders, bits of cotton clinging to her like snowflakes. Daryl knew he was covered in his fair share of cotton as well.  _What a pair we make._

"Your feet doin' all right?"

He hadn't realized until she'd removed her stockings that her shoes had been taken off in the car. He wanted that Carol back, the Carol with her feet up on the dash, laughing and smiling at him.  _Goddamn careless fool you are. Should have left Savannah hours earlier._

_Should never have taken her in the first place._

But that was another fool's dream. There had been no way to avoid taking Carol. She'd have been sent here, with or without him.

"They're just fine," she said. "You don't have to keep asking."

"Sorry."  _I'm sorry for everything._

They walked along the field, the backs of their hands brushing against one another but the space between them still thick with confusion, anger and a hint of despair.

"Why did you kill that man?" Carol asked suddenly. Daryl stopped and cocked his head.  _She's gone cracked._

"He tried to kill us?" he said, making it clear the answer was obvious. Carol sighed and shook her head, her hands on her hips only serving to remind him just how tight the navy and red dress was. His brain betrayed him, flashing on the forbidden memory of their dance at The Five O'Clock Club. The way she'd looked in that gown of hers, the aching wanting for her that had settled in his bones before he'd even properly seen her face.

_But that was long ago, now my consolation_

_Is in the stardust of a song_

"No," Carol said. "Greene would have wanted information from him, but you snapped his neck before you got anything. Why?"

 _Oh shit, oh fuck, oh goddammit._  Sometimes he forgot just how much Carol  _saw_. That fucking chump of Blake's had Daryl seeing red the second Carol had been threatened. He hadn't meant to break the man's neck, not then, but the words  _'your bitch'_  had been enough to set him off.

"Out of everything that's happened tonight, that's what buggin' ya?" he asked incredulously.  _Please don't, not now. Don't make me say it._

He remembered them swaying together, the sultry croon of Michonne's dulcet tones all around them while they danced. The feel of those curves under his hands, pressed up against him as they breathed each other in.

_Though I dream in vain_

_In my heart it will remain_

"Yeah, that's what I want to know."

As their voices started to carry over the fields of cotton, Daryl figured it was inevitable. He supposed they were due for a fight. They hadn't had one in days and with the swirl of emotion running through him, it was either fight or leap across a line that would change everything.

The rubber band inside of him was stretched too tight, too thin, starting to crack around the edges.

"It don't matter-"

"It  _does_  matter-"

"Why-"

"-because it doesn't make-"

"-don't need to make any sense-"

"-all I'm saying is-"

"-too damn nosy for yer own good-"

"-just don't know why you would risk Greene-'

"Because he threatened you!"

Daryl's words echoed into the night, ringing out louder than he'd intended, twice as loud for the startling silence that followed.

_Well, fuck. In for a penny, in for a fuckin' pound._

"There, all right?" Daryl threw his hands up in the air in utter surrender. "I killed that goon because he threatened you."

Carol's eyes were blown wide, bluer than blue in the silver light of the moon, enough to let him see he'd crack through the icy wall she'd hastily thrown between them. She  _cared_... and she cared that  _he_  cared. There was a hint, just maybe, of the same fire he felt for her. Still damp from the river, barefoot and covered in fluffs of flyaway cotton, she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"A lot of people threaten me," Carol said finally. "You shouldn't-"

_Snap._

It was too fast, too hard, too clumsy. He was fucking this up so spectacularly and she tasted so sweet he didn't even care. He almost missed her mouth, but he managed to catch enough of it with his, kissing her with every inch of ferocity he had left after this exhausting, emotional day. It was worth it. His imagination had nothing on the real thing.  _Perfect, so perfect._ He didn't want to stop, but he felt her tense up and pulled back quickly to see tears in her eyes.  _Goddamn stupid idiot._  He started to turn but stopped when she reached out to grab at his arms.

"Daryl." No one had ever said his name the way she did. " _Daryl_."

" _Carol._ "

She wound her arms around him as he slid his hand up her neck and into her curls, tilting her head back as she pulled him close. This time, he made his mark straight on and  _god help him_ , she was kissing him back, nibbling on his lower lip and opening her mouth for him. He wanted to spend the rest of his life kissing her. Everything else - Greene, Blake, the war, even the cotton floating around them like snowflakes or stardust - faded away as he lost himself in the sweet bliss of Carol's lips.

* * *

**_A/N 2:_ ** _As always, a few end notes:_

_The gangsters referenced in Crowley's inner monologue are Al Capone, Charles 'Lucky' Luciano, Enoch 'Nucky' Johnson (who was the inspiration for Steve Buscemi's character Enoch 'Nucky' Thompson in HBO's "Boardwalk Empire"), Meyer Lansky and Benjamin 'Bugsy' Siegel. All of them are more than moderately famous for their antics from the 1920's-1940's. Bugsy Siegel was killed (possibly on Meyer Lansky's orders) on June 20, 1947. Throwing a little real world gangster action to help keep the timeline going in this._

_The Oconee River is much shallower now, but reviewing the USGS historical records show the average depth of the Oconee during the 1930's-40's was around 30 feet. Easily deep enough to submerge a car in._

_For the anon who asked in a review to Chapter 20, I dug through Georgia state maps as well as a copy of a Rand McNally road map from the late 1940's. The highway routes mentioned, as well as the terrain described in Chapter 20, as well as this chapter and the next, are accurate according to the maps I used._

_I may have mentioned this before, but in my head, Thom Crowley is played by Tom Hardy. Just throwing that out there, because I can. ;)_

_Poor Olivia. I do feel bad about that one, but it's a mob/noir story, and it's me writing it. Nobody is safe._

_We've officially reached the halfway point! Thanks for sticking with me this far, everyone. Hope you're enjoying the ride!_


	22. Split Places and Paces

_**A/N:** Hello, it's me. I was wondering if after all these months you'd like to read... Sorry, couldn't resist paraphrasing Adele there. :P Working on getting my mojo back. If you're still here, bless you. You're amazing._

* * *

**Chapter 22: Split Places and Paces**

The lights from the glowing neon sign of The Five O'Clock Club's main entrance shown down on the street, casting the sizeable queue by the front door in its blue light. The excited rumble of voices from those hoping to get inside, or even just get a peek beyond the heavily muscled goons at the door, echoed down the busy street. Half a block away, Shane leaned back against a wall just outside the range of a streetlamp and took a long, slow drag off his third stick of the hour. _Any minute now…_

A figure broke through the crowd and tottered down the street. Always sharp eyed for a good pair of gams, Shane could see the spiked heels and admire the delicate shape and curve of the dame's legs a minute before he noticed the tumble of blonde hair. His old pal was a stupid bastard if he didn't appreciate what he had. Shane crooked his finger at her and waited until the woman had crossed the street to join him in the shadows.

"Well?"

"For the record, I really hate you," Andrea said, her ruby mouth set in a grim line.

"The feeling's mutual, darlin', but we don't have all night for foreplay. Spill the beans already."

"It's only Jackson and Randall tonight," the madam said with a weary sigh.

"No Crow?"

"He _was_ there," Andrea said slowly, "but he got a call at the bar and left."

"Spill it already, will ya?"

The detective was taking no prisoners. The only way this half-cocked plan would work was if Carol Peletier's boarding house was empty tonight. Andrea was eyeing him and he smirked, knowing the blonde would like nothing more than to slap him right in the kisser. He waited, knowing his earlier threat to ensure her cooperation would get him what he needed. _Oh Rick, if you only knew…_

"He had company with him," Andrea said resentfully.

"Who?"

"Not a clue. Some half-drunk asshole in a mismatched suit and a cowboy hat. They left with Theodore."

Shane knew Crowley had driven to the club in his own car that night. _If he left with the driver..._ This was good. This was better than good. _Still…_

"What about the brothers Dixon?" Shane asked, barely keeping the snarl from his voice.

"Haven't seen them."

" _Andrea,"_ Shane said warningly.

" _Haven't. Seen. Them."_ She said it like that, each word heavy with loathing. Not a twitch of a lip nor flicker of an eye betrayed her, but he also knew Andrea… and he knew she was lying to him.

"Just tell me they ain't at the house."

Andrea blinked in surprise. "They're not at – _why?_ "

Shane smirked and threw his cigarette stub on the ground. _Gotcha, Blondie._ He had enough to go forward with this hair-brained scheme. It was risky and Dale was gonna read him the riot act and then some for it, but it was a hell of a shot. _No risk, no reward._

"Don't worry about it. Now scram," he said, dismissing Andrea with a wave of his hand. To his surprise, she stepped in, coming close enough their noses almost touched.

"Carol Peletier is my friend," she hissed. "If whatever you're about to do hurts her in any way-"

"I'm _helping_ her," the detective insisted. Andrea's skeptical gaze clawed at his nerves. _She doesn't know shit._ "The _last_ thing I want to do is hurt her."

"You're not exactly hitting a home run there, lover boy," Andrea drawled.

"Haven't struck out yet," Shane shot back. "Now get lost, Andrea, before I change my mind about Rick."

"You can keep threatening me with Rick's safety all you want, but one word from me and he'll destroy you in the papers and you know it."

"Do I, Andrea?"

She stepped back, her face showing how deep that hurt went. He felt a twinge of guilt, but it only lasted half a heartbeat before he buried it deep. They both knew he was right; Rick could have set out to destroy Shane personally in print years ago, had enough dirt to ruin him for life, and never did. Shane figured it was the last lingering connection, some semblance of loyalty that remained from their childhood, sparing him him even while Rick tore the Atlanta PD to shreds on the daily.

"Stop lookin' at me like I plugged your mother," Shane said, not unkindly. "Get going, before someone sees you."

She was gone in a flash of golden hair, the echo of her heels clicking on the pavement all that remained. Shane sighed and pushed himself off the wall, his shoulders feeling like they would bear the imprint of brick 'til the end of his days. Fifty feet away, a black car sat parked at the curb. He slid into the passenger's seat and tore off his fedora to rub his hand across his head before looking around at the other undercovers in the car. Oscar Campbell was behind the wheel, Shawn Brown, Leon Bassett and Tony Daniels were squished together in the back seat.

"Nobody's at the boardinghouse," Shane said. "Let's go now, while we have a chance."

"What about Lambert?" Brown asked.

"He's on desk duty tonight," Campbell reminded the youngest officer. "We gotta keep up our appearances, like Dale said."

"And you're _sure_ we shouldn't get a warrant first?"

"Been there, done that," Shane said impatiently. The hapless Eugene had been unable to recover the warrant he'd lost but had taken long enough with the search that the judge had already left by the time Shane tried to see him for a new one. "We're doing it our way now. Off the books, remember? Reckon that includes a little breakin' and enterin', if I do say so myself. Fucking _drive_ already, Oscar."

"What if Mrs. Peletier comes home?"

"I'll handle it," Shane said quickly. _Christ, what I wouldn't give for a shot or six right now._ He burned for a drink, even though he hadn't touched the stuff since the fiasco at Dwyer's. The very thought of Carol Peletier, even just her name, was enough to set his insides squirming. He'd been so _close_ the last time he'd seen her. This had to work. It had to. _I'll fix it… I'll save her._

* * *

The safe house was little more than a shack with a tarpaper roof, but Carol supposed it was something. She shuddered as she took in the single room, with its small kitchenette, tiny fireplace and threadbare mattress tossed in a corner. The chill from their impromptu swim in the Oconee had settled deep in her bones, despite the warm night air, and she wanted almost nothing more than a hot shower and the comforting warmth of her own bed.

_Almost nothing…_

Daryl stepped back into the house, quickly slamming the door shut and throwing the lock. He looked as cold as she did, his clothes still as damp and clinging as she knew hers were. _What a pair we are._

She could barely remember how they got here or how they'd found the willpower to stop kissing in the first place long enough to make it. Nothing in her whole life had prepared her for how _good_ a kiss could feel.

"You with me, little bird?"

He was close enough to touch so she did, splaying her hand on his chest and feeling the rapid _thump, thump_ of his heart beneath her palm. Daryl shuddered and covered her hand with his, keeping her clutched to his chest so she could feel his heartbeat triple in pace.

"Why do you call me that?" she asked softly. "'Little bird'?"

"It bother you?" Daryl asked instead of answering. "I can stop if you don' like it."

She didn't want him to stop anything. All she wanted was the feel of his lips and his arms around her again. She wanted it so bad the room was starting to spin.

" _Daryl…"_

She knew he'd understood her plea as his mouth found hers. She gave herself over completely, winding her arms around his neck and letting her hands tangle in his hair as he pushed them back until she was pressed up against the wall. She could smell the faintest whiff of the cologne he must have put on that morning – a hundred years ago – beneath the scent of cotton and the slightly sour tang of river water. His tongue brushed against her lips, pleading, begging, and she instinctively opened up to him. He kissed her like he was _starving_ for her.

For _her_. For little Carol Sullivan, who'd never been starved for by anyone.

It was overwhelming. _He_ was overwhelming and the sense of vertigo increased tenfold right when he let his lips drift down to the sensitive skin of her neck and pushed his knee between her thighs. Carol gasped and shut her eyes, her head tilting back on its own to give him more room for the long licks and biting kisses he was leaving all over her neck.

"Too much," she panted. It didn't stop him, sucking on her pulse point until she moaned and wrapped her leg around his, her bare foot running up and down his calf and feeling him hard against her hip. It was so far beyond the realm of her experience that she was afraid she was going to faint dead away. " _Too much_."

" _Fuck_." Daryl swore and pushed himself away from her, leaving her cold and trembling. For a terrifying moment, she found herself on the verge of tears she couldn't explain. She gulped and tried to reign herself in while Daryl had his back to her, kneeling to the floor to shove the thin mattress aside and pull up one of the weathered floorboards to remove a thick burlap sack form the shallow space beneath.

"Really?" Carol asked shakily.

"Best place to keep anythin' worth keepin' is under the mattress," Daryl replied. His voice was lower than normal, rough and rumbly in a way that made her insides curl. _She'd_ done that to him.

"But that's so obvious," she said. "Even _I_ would look there."

"Exactly, which is why it's the last place anybody would look." He stood and pushed a pile of folded cloth into her hands. Clothes. Men's clothes, to be exact. "S'all we got."

"It's fine," she said absently. "It's just…" One room, with nowhere to hide. The idea of stripping, of him watching her… _Whoa, knock that off, girl. This isn't the time._ There were still people after them, people who'd tried to kill them. They had no weapons, nowhere else to go, and given how their luck had gone so far, no time. And yet…

"I won't look," Daryl promised. She bit her lip at the dark twinkle that flashed in his eyes. _Evil…_ "Promise. I gotta make a call, see if I can get us out of here sooner rather than later."

She nodded and moved to the other side of the narrow room, waiting until Daryl had picked up the phone and had turned his back to her before she peeled her soaked clothes from her body, her dress and the delicate lace undergarments Andrea had talked her into. The man's button down Daryl had passed her was like a dress, the hem falling to mid-thigh and the collar threatening to slip off her shoulder. _It would probably stay if you buttoned it all the way._ Carol blushed at her daring and glanced over her shoulder. Daryl was still on the phone but had pulled off his shirt and undershirt. Her breath caught as the muscles in his back rippled with his minute movements, making the strange tattoos and long, thick scars that decorated his skin dance.

Suddenly warm, Carol turned and busied herself with wringing out her clothes and laying them over the edge of the tiny sink as Daryl hung up the phone, all too aware of the two buttons she had deliberately left undone.

"Crowley's comin'," Daryl said shortly. "Be about two hours or so."

"Oh." She wasn't sure what else to say to that, so she busied herself with by pulling the pins from her hair. It was a mess and any thought of sneaking a peek at Daryl changing fled in the face of trying to pull the tiny pins from the tangled knots. Minutes ticked by, the sounds of Daryl moving around the tiny shack muffled while she focused. She'd managed to get nearly all of them and was fussing with what she hoped was the last one, deep inside the ruins of what had been a delicately crafted curl, when she jumped at the feel of Daryl suddenly right behind her.

"Here." He gently pushed her hands out of the way and threaded his fingers into her hair, carefully working the small pin loose and soothing the gnarl of hair. She sighed and leaned back, the metal pin falling from Daryl's hands to clink forgotten against the porcelain sink as his arms folded around her middle. _So much for not getting distracted._ It was the second time in less than a day she'd found herself in his embrace, just like this; back to front, taking solace from his strength… except this time she wore only a shirt and he was bare chested behind her.

It was madness but it didn't change the fact that here, wrapped up in the arms of a soldier for the mobster holding her life hostage, she felt safer than she had her entire marriage to her husband.

* * *

"Another." Andrea slammed the empty shot glass down on the bar top and waved her hand at Glenn, hating the slight twitch she couldn't help. "Stinking selfish bastard will kill us all."

"Beg pardon?" The Rhee kid was fast, she had to give him that. Back with the whiskey quick enough to hear her muttered comment over the din inside the club.

She couldn't stave off Shane Walsh with her wiles or even threats this time. Greene was barking at her heels and she knew she needed to move carefully. It was time to play her ace in the hole. She flipped her hair over her shoulder and gave the young bartender her best smile.

"Can I use the phone, sugar?"

A minute later she was tucked into a dark corner behind the bar with the phone to her ear. Holding her breath, she counted the tinny rings and gazed back at a dozen reflected images of herself, shining back at her from the bottles and pristine glasses that lined the bar.

_Picture perfect blonde honey with great legs and a killer smile… A real man eater._

She knew what people said, had worked hard to create that reputation herself. Armor. Insurance. Security. She also knew what anyone and everyone would ask her if they could see the jumble of thoughts inside her head. _Was Rick Grimes worth risking everything?_

Too bad for them; Andrea had made up her mind a long time ago. She let lose a long exhale and barked out the minute the line went live.

"It's me," she said sharply. "I need him. Wake him if you have to."

It took less time than she would have guessed for the bleary, scratchy rasp to reach out through the phone, sending her into tremors of both fear and relief.

"You realize it's been a hell of a few days, don'tcha doll?"

"Hello, Merle."


	23. Birds On Their Wires

**Chapter 23** : **Birds on Their Wires**

They'd found a single gas lantern, the kind she'd grown up with before their house had been wired for electricity. It sat on the floor, dead center in the small room, a perfect golden circle that cast dancing shadows on the weathered walls. It was too risky to light a fire in the old pot bellied stove, so they sat on the thin mattress and curled together under the single blanket the shack had to offer; wooly and slightly scratchy, but leaning up against Daryl's chest and his arms around her, his fingers stroking absentmindedly at her elbow, Carol was warm. So warm, and contented despite the bone deep exhaustion niggling at the edges of her consciousness. If she could only sleep, just for a little…

"Stay awake, little bird," Daryl murmured in her ear.

"Mind reader."

She felt his chuckle deep in his chest, a slight shudder against her back that made her smile. They'd already talked about it: the need to stay awake, to fight off the cold. She could do that.

"What happens when we get home?" she asked softly. Daryl sighed, his breath warm against her temple. She waited, the jumble of thoughts swirling in his head so palpable she could feel them in the air.

"Business as usual," he finally said flatly. Right. Business… business meant cover and things done in the shadows she'd rather not imagine. She'd already gotten close enough. Business meant Merle… and Andrea… and Crowley.

Crowley would be there soon. Less than an hour, now… maybe…

"Tell me about your grandfather?"

"Hmmm." She smiled as he nuzzled his nose into her hair and tilted her head up enough to plant the tiniest of kisses on the curve of his jaw. "Trade you."

"Oh really?"

"Somethin' 'bout my grandpappy… and you tell me somethin' 'bout Sophia?" The question was cautious, so tentative and quiet she almost didn't hear him. She settled back down against him and turned her gaze back to the lantern and let Daryl's arms fold tighter around her. She could do this, too.

"I had her in dance classes by the time she was three," Carol said quietly. "From the minute she could talk, it was all she asked for. The way she'd smile… It was everything." The images flitted through her mind: her daughter's big, beautiful smile as she twirled and twirled. The gentle, only-slightly-pitying smile of the teacher who'd allowed Sophia to stay in classes even after the money had disappeared. The embarrassment had been worth it.

"Grandpappy used to laugh he had a lil' Injun in him, with all his bow and arrow huntin'..." She let herself drown in the smooth whiskey of Daryl's voice, the soft lantern light, the warmth and strength of him around her, and wished they never had to leave.

* * *

The roof of The Five O'Clock Club was one of Andrea's secret places. Daryl had shown her the unassuming door that hid the dark, narrow staircase that led up here once. She'd come up here to get away from the crowd and the noise. Sometimes she'd bum a smoke off Daryl, if she caught him up here.

Tonight she stood, high on the ledge, her heels kicked off to the side. Nothing below her but air… and then the hard, unforgiving pavement. She just couldn't help herself. She felt so  _free_  up here.

It was war. She knew that. An all-out world war, just like in Europe… but here. Greene versus this damn ghost, Greene versus his own stinking mortality, Greene's gang versus the simpering honorable Dale Horvath and his band of merry coppers, the Dixons against Jackson Lachterie, Rick against… against the whole world, really. Wars without end.

He didn't love her. Andrea wasn't foolish enough to think he did. She knew men, knew  _him_ , and knew what her place in his life was. But goddammit, somehow Rick Grimes found a chink in her armor, gotten through. She was head over heels. A sucker, gone and done for.

She walked the high wire between factions backwards, and in high heels to boot. She always had; it was how she survived. A flash of thigh, a toss of blonde curls and a smile of ruby red lips so they'd never notice how she  _listened._ She was the best in the game, and she knew it.

There was a scripture about that, wasn't there? Something about pride before the fall…

One step... Back. She planted her feet firmly on the roof and ignored the relieved shudder that ran through her. Nobody was falling yet.

Certainly not her.

The door from inside banged open, tearing Andrea from her thoughts as she spun on her toes to face the newcomers. All things considered, she thought she managed to keep her expression fairly neutral at the couple that stumbled through the door, laughing and caressing each other familiarly. She cleared her throat, drawing their attention away from each other.

"Well, hi there," Andrea smirked.  _Now this is interesting._

"Hello," Lori Grimes replied hesitantly, flushed tomato red from the roots of her hair and down the length of her neck.

"Evenin', Andrea," Michonne drawled as she arched a warning eyebrow at the blonde.

Oh, what Merle Dixon wouldn't give for this juicy bit...

**_Very_ ** _interesting indeed._

* * *

Crowley barreled down the highway, his foot heavy on the accelerator. The dark shadows of trees blurred into a black wall outside the windows, lining the dark pavement and making it seem as if they traveled in another world… one that was closing in with alarming speed.

Sixteen of their men, gone already in a turf war gone toxic. Shot, strangled, burned, some just plain old vanished. Daryl Dixon sent to Savannah in the mother of all Hail Mary plays with Carol fucking Peletier. That alone was trouble of a whole different sort, the type he usually left to the likes of Merle and Andrea to use against each other with increasing frequency. It was all spinning out of control, and he was starting to worry he was the only one with any real brains left in the whole stinking operation.

Axel was uncharacteristically quiet in the passenger seat, chewing on a gnarled cheroot with an almost eerie contemplation.

They were fifteen, maybe twenty minutes from the safe house, if Daryl's instructions were correct.

He tried not to think about what might have happened in Savannah. Better to hear it from Daryl and the widow.

 _Fuck_.

* * *

"I don't get it," Leon Bassett hissed impatiently from the backseat, making Shane's teeth clench together so hard his jaw was starting to ache.

" _Get. What_." Shane growled.

"Why did you even try to get a warrant? We got Horvath's say-so to go without… fuck, we're supposed to go under the radar! So why'd we waste all that time doin' some half-assed song and dance ain't gonna matter in the end?"

He didn't want to admit that Bassett had a point. Dale's instructions had been explicit: no warrants, no records, no  _paperwork_. If the coin landed heads up on their side, nobody was even going to know what they'd done. Ever. So why hadn't he followed the plan?

They were parked in front of Carol Peletier's boarding house. As Andrea had promised, it was dark. No cars in the drive, the windows shuttered.  _Nobody home. Nobody's_ _ **home**_ _._

"Just one somebody's." He didn't realize he'd spoken out loud until he caught Daniels' arched eyebrow in the rear view mirror.

In some mad way, he'd been trying to warn her. Maybe get her out of there in case any of the goons were in the joint that night. It was her home, after all. He didn't want Carol incriminated in any way. She wasn't one of  _them_ , not by a long shot.

"You fellas wanna sit here chewin' the fat, or can we get to work now?" Shane tossed the keys to Bassett and heaved himself out of the car. "Be fast now. And someone grab me the damn crowbar."

* * *

_**A/N:**  This exists because of the infinite enthusiasm of meeshie, AlannasTara and onedayyoujustchange, who have yet to give up on this story even as I drown in work and grad school. Thanks also to my eternally patient and supportive beta imorca, without whom none of this would exist at all. _

_And you to, dear reader. Bless you from the bottom of my cold, black heart. I haven't given up on this story, even though I'm so much slower at updating than I would like. I am, as is this story, a work in progress. Thanks for sticking with me._


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